I 


Mary   J.   L.   Mc  Donald 


^ 


THERE  AND  BACK 


BY 
GEORGE   MACDONALD 

Author  of 

Waiu.ock  o'  Glenwarlock,"  "Donal  Grant,' 

"Annals  of  a  Quiet  Neighborhood," 

and  others 


BOSTON 
D.    LOTHROP    COMPANY 

WASHINGTON   STREET  OPPOSITE    BKOMFiEID 


Copyright,   i8gi, 

nv 

D    LoTHROP  Company. 

This  copyright  protects  the  work  of  an  American  writer,  who  has 
contributed  material  to  various  portions  of  the  story,  winch  is 
here  incorporated. 


IN  MEMORIAM 


1 


pf 


NOTE. 

Some  of  the  readers  of  this  tale  will  be  glad- 
to  know  that  the  passage  with  which  it  ends  is 
a  real  dream  ;  and  that,  with  but  three  or  four 
changes  almost  too  slight  to  require  acknowl- 
edging, I  have  given  it  word  for  word  as  the 
friend  to  whom  it  came  set  it  down  for  me. 


984409 


In  the  sure  hope  of  ever  lasting  brotherhood,  I 
offer  this  book  to  Ronald  MacDonald,  my  son  and 
friend,    my  pupil,   fellow-student,  and   fellow-vvork- 


BORDIGHERA  : 

February^  j8gi. 


CONTENTS. 


Chap.  Page. 

1.  Father,  Child,  and  Nurse 9 

2.  Stepmother  and  Nurse 21 

3.  TheFUght 28 

4.  The  Bookbinder  and  his  Pupil 33 

5 .  The  Mansons 47 

6.  Simon  Armour 60 

7.  Comparisons 7° 

8.  A  Lost  Shoe 77 

9.  A  Holiday 85 

10.  The  Library 93 

11.  Alice 103 

12.  Mortgrange 114 

13.  The  Beech-tree 120 

14.  The  Library 129 

15.  Barbara  Wylder 134 

16.  Barbara  and  Richard 142 

17.  Barbara  and  Others 157 

18.  Mrs.  Wylder 162 

19.  Mrs.  Wylder  and  Barbara 1 74 

20.  Barbara  and  her  Critics 178 

21.  The  Parson's   Parable 184 

22.  The  Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner 195 

23.  A  Human  Gadfly 225 

24.  Richard  and  Wingfold 233 

25.  Wingfold  and  his  Wife 241 

26.  Richard  and  Alice 246 

27.  A  Sister 255 

28.  Barbara  and  Lady  Ann 270 

29.  Alice  and  Barbara 283 

30.  Barbara  Thinks 301 


CONTENTS. 


Chap.  Page. 

3 1 .  Wingfold  and  Barbara 310 

32.  The  Shoeing  of  Miss  Brown 326 

33.  Richard  and  Vixen 336 

34.  Barbara's  Duty 343 

35.  The  Parson's  Counsel 360 

36.  Lady  Ann  Meditates 373 

37.  Lady  Ann  and  Richard 3^ 

38.  Richard  and  Arthur 3^5 

39.  Mr.,  Mrs.,  and  Miss  Wylder 394 

40.  In  London 4^7 

41 .  Nature  and  Supernature 416 

42.  Yet  a  Lower  Deep 4^6 

43.  To  be  Redeemed,  one  must  Redeem , 43^ 

44.  A  Door  Opened  in  Heaven 444 

45.  The  Carriage 45 ' 

46.  Richard's   Dilemma ■ ...  459 

47.  The  Doors  of  Harmony  and  Death 4^5 

48.  Death  the  Deliverer 479 

49.  The  Cave  in  the  Fire ....  4S5 

50.  Duck-Fists , 495 

5 1 .  Baronet  and  Blacksmith 5 '  ^ 

52.  Uncle-Father  and  Aunt-Mother 519 

53.  Morning 5-9 

Barbara  at  Home 53^ 

Miss  Brown 549 


54- 

55- 

56.  Wingfold  and  Barbara 559 

57.  The  Baronet's  Will • 562 

58.  The  Heir 5^7 

59.  Wingfold  and  Arthur  Manson 579 

60.  Ricliard  and  his   Family 583 

61.  Heart  to   Heart 59° 

62.  The  Quarrel 59^ 

63.  Baronet  and  Blacksmith 605 

64.  The  Baronet's  Funeral 610 

65.  The  Packet 621 

66.  Barbara's   Dream 62S 


THERE   AND    BACK. 


CHAPTER  L 

FATHER,    CHILD,    AND  "nURSE. 

It  would  be  but  stirring-  a  muddy  pool  to  inquire — 
not  what  motives  induced,  but  what  forces  compelled 
Sir  Wilton  Lestrange  to  marry  a  woman  nobody  knew. 
It  is  enough  to  say  that  these  forces  were  mainly 
ignoble,  as  manifested  by  their  intermittent  character 
and  final  cessation.  The  mesalliance  occasioned  not 
a  little  surprise,  and  quite  as  much  annoyance, 
among  the  county  families, — failing,  however,  to 
remind  any  that  certain  of  their  own  grandmothers 
had  been  no  better  known  to  the  small  world  than 
Lady  Lestrange.  It  caused  yet  more  surprise, 
though  less  annoyance,  in  the  clubs  to  which  Sir 
Wilton  had  hitherto  been  indebted  for  help  to  forget 
his  duties  :  they  set  him  down  as  a  greater  idiot  than 
his  friends  had  hitherto  imagined  him.  For  had  he 
not  been  dragged  to  the  altar  by  a  woman  whose 
manners  and  breeding  were  hardly  on  the  level  of  a 
villa  in  St.  John's  Wood  .?  Did  any  one  know  whence 
she  sprang,  or  even  the  name  which  Sir  Wilton  had 
displaced  with  his  own  .?  But  Sir  Wilton  himself  was 
not  proud  of  his  lady  ;  and  if  the  thing  had  been  any 
business  of  theirs,  it  would  have  made  no  difference 
to  him  ;  he  would  none  the  less  have  let  them  pine 


THERE    AND    BACK. 


in  their  ignorance.  Did  not  his  mother,  a  lady  less 
dignified  than  eccentric,  out  of  pure  curiosity,  beg 
enlightenment  concerning  her  origin,  and  receive  for 
answer  from  the  high-minded  baronet,  "  Madam,  the 
woman  is  my  wife  !  " — after  which  the  prudent  dowa- 
ger asked  no  more  questions,  but  treated  her  daugh- 
ter-in-lavv  with  neither  better  nor  worse  than  civil- 
ity. Sir  Wilton,  in  fact,  soon  came  to  owe. his  wife 
,  a;  grudge; that  he  had  married  her,  and  none  the 
'Icss^that  at  the  tihife'  he  felt  himself  of  a  generosity 
more  than  human  in  bestowing  upon  her  his  name. 
Creation  itself,  had  he  ever  thought  of  it,  would  have 
seemed  to  him  a  small  thing  beside  such  a  gift ! 
The  mesalliajice  was  the  fruitage  of  but  a  moment- 
ary passion.  Springing  up  suddenly,  it  as  suddenly 
died  away,  dropping  from  a  loveless  attraction  to 
coldness  and  positive  hatred. 

And  what  of  the  woman  who  was  at  once  the  lure 
and  the  victim  of  this  union  without  heart.?  That 
Robina  Armour,  after  experience  of  his  first  ad- 
vances, should  have  at  last  consented  to  marry 
Sir  Wilton  Lestrange,  was  in  no  sense  in  her  favor, 
although  after  a  fashion  she  was  in  love  with  him — 
in  love,  that  is,  with  the  gentleman  of  her  own 
imagining  whom  she  saw  in  the  baronet  ;  while  the 
baronet,  on  his  part,  was  what  he  called  i7i  love  with 
what  he  called  ihe  ivoman.  As  he  was  overcome  by 
her  beauty,  so  was  she  by  his  rank — an  idol  at  whose 
clay  feet  is  cast  many  a  spiritual  birthright — and  as 
mean  a  deity  as  any  of  man's  device.  But  the  black- 
smith's daughter  was  in  many  respects,  notwith- 
standing, a  woman  of  good  sense,  with  much  real 
refinement,  and  a  genuine  regard  for  rectitude. 
Although  Sir  Wilton  had  never  loved  her  with  what 


FATHER,    CHILD,    AND    NURSE. 


was  best  in  him,  it  was  not  in  spite  of  what  was  best 
in  him  that  he  fell  in  love  with  her.  Had  his  better 
nature  been  awake,  it  would  have  justified  the  bond, 
and  been  strengthened  by  it. 

Lady  Lestrange's  father  was  a  good  blacksmith, 
occasionally  drunk  in  his  youth,  but  persistently 
sober  now  in  his  middle  age  ;  a  long-headed  fellow, 
with  reach  and  quality  in  the  prudence  which  had 
long  ceased  to  appear  to  him  the  highest  of  virtues. 
At  one  period  he  had  accounted  it  the  prime  duty  of 
existence  to  take  care  of  oneself;  and  so  much  of  this 
belief  had  he  communicated  to  his  younger  daugh- 
ter, that  she  deported  herself  so  that  Sir  Wilton  mar- 
ried her — with  the  result  that,  when  Death  knocked 
at  her  door,  she  welcomed  him  to  her  heart.  The 
first  cry  of  her  child,  it  is  true,  made  her  recall  the 
welcome,  but  she  had  to  go  with  him,  notwithstand- 
ing, when  the  child  was  but  an  hour  old. 

Not  one  of  her  husband's  family  was  in  the  house 
when  she  died.  Sir  Wilton  himself  was  in  town,  and 
had  been  for  the  last  six  months,  preferring  London 
and  his  club  to  Mortgrange  and  his  wife.  When  a 
telegram  informed  him  that  she  was  in  danger,  he  did 
go  home,  but  when  he  arrived,  she  had  been  an  hour 
gone,  and  he  congratulated  himself  that  he  had  taken 
the  second  train. 

There  had  been  betwixt  them  no  approach  to 
union.  When  what  Sir  Wilton  called  love  had  evap- 
orated, he  returned  to  his  mire,  with  a  resentful  feel- 
ing that  the  handsome  woman — his  superior  in  every- 
thing that  belongs  to  humanity — had  bewitched  him 
to  his  undoing.  The  truth  was,  she  had  ceased  to 
charm  him.  The  fault  was  not  in  her;  it  lay  in  the 
dulled  eye  of  the  swiftly  deteriorating  man,  which 


THERE    AND    BACK. 


grew  less  and  less  capable  of  seeing  things  as  they 
were,  and  transmitted  falser  and  falser  impressions 
of  them.  The  light  that  was  in  him  was  darkness. 
The  woman  that  might  have  made  a  man  of  him, 
had  there  been  the  stuff,  passed  from  him  an 
unprized  gift,  a  thing  to  which  he  made  Hades 
welcome. 

It  was  decent,  however,  not  to  parade  his  relief. 
He  retired  to  the  library,  lit  a  cigar,  and  sat  down  to 
wish  the  unpleasant  fuss  of  the  funeral  over,  and  the 
house  rid  of  a  disagreeable  presence.  Had  the 
woman  died  of  a  disease  to  which  he  might  himself 
one  day  have  to  succumb,  her  death  might,  as  he  sat 
there,  have  chanced  to  raise  for  an  instant  the  watery 
ghost  of  an  emotion  ;  but,  coming  as  it  did,  he  had 
no  sympathetic  interest  in  her  death  any  more  than 
in  herself.  Lolling  in  the  easiest  of  chairs,  he  re- 
volved the  turns  of  last  night's  play,  until  it  occurred 
to  him  that  he  might  soon  by  a  second  marriage  take 
amends  of  his  neighbors  for  their  disapprobation  of 
his  first.  So  pleasant  was  the  thought  that,  brooding 
upon  it,  he  fell  asleep. 

He  woke,  looked,  rubbed  his  eyes,  stared,  rubbed 
them  again,  and  stared.  A  woman  stood  in  front  of 
him — one  he  had  surely  seen  ! — no,  he  had  never 
seen  her  anywhere  !  What  an  odd,  inquiring,  search- 
ing expression  in  her  two  hideous  black  eyes  !  And 
what  was  that  in  her  arms — something  wrapt  in  a 
blanket.? 

The  message  in  the  telegram  recurred  to  him  : 
there  must  have  been  a  child  !  The  bundle  must  be 
the  child  !  Confound  the  creature  !  What  did  it 
want .'' 

"Go  away,"  he  said  ;    "this  is  not  the  nursery  !  " 


FATHER,    CHILD,     AND    NURSE.  1 3 

"  I  thought  you  might  like  to  look  at  the  baby, 
sir  !  "  the  woman  replied. 

Sir  Wilton  stared  at  the  blanket. 
"  It  might  comfort  you,  I  thought !  "  she  went  on, 
with  a  look  he  felt  to  be  strange.      Her  eyes  were 
hard  and  dry,  red  with  recent  tears,   and  glowing 
with  suppressed  fire. 

Sir  Wilton  was  courteous  to  most  women,  espe- 
cially such  as  had  no  claim  upon  him,  but  cherished 
respect  for  none.  It  was  odd  therefore  that  he 
should  now  feel  embarrassed.  From  some  cause  the 
machinery  of  his  self-content  had  possibly  got  out  of 
gear  ;  anyhow  no  answer  came  ready.  He  had  not 
the  smallest  wish  to  see  the  child,  but  was  yet,  per- 
haps, unwilling  to  appear  brutal.  In  the  meantime, 
the  woman,  with  gentle,  moth-like  touch,  was  part- 
ing and  turning  back  the  folds  of  the  blanket,  until 
from  behind  it  dawned  a  tiny  human  face,  w^hose 
angel  was  suppliant,  it  may  be,  for  the  baptism  of 
a  father's  first  gaze. 

The  woman  held  out  the  child  to  Sir  Wilton,  as  if 
expecting  him  to  take  it.  He  started  to  his  feet, 
driving  the  chair  a  yard  behind  him,  stuck  his  hands 
in  his  pockets,  and,  with  a  face  of  disgust,  cried — 

"  Take  the  creature  away  !  " 

But  he  could  not  lift  his  eyes  from  the  face  nested 
in  the  blanket.  It  seemed  to  fascinate  him.  The 
woman's  eyes  flared,  but  she  did  not  speak. 

"Uglier  than  sin  !  "  he  half  hissed,  half  growled. 
" — I  suppose  the  animal  is  mine,  but  you  needn't 
bring  it  so  close  to  me  !  Take  it  away— and  keep  it 
away.  I  will  send  for  it  when  I  want  it— which 
won't  be  in  a  hurry  !  Pfaugh  !  how  hideous  a  thing 
may  be,  and  yet  human  !  " 


14  THERE    AND    BACK. 

"  He  is  as  God  made  him  !  "  remarked  the  nurse, 
quietly  for  very  wrath. 

"  Or  the  devil !  "  suggested  his  father. 

Then  the  woman  looked  like  a  tigress.  She 
opened  her  mouth,  but  closed  it  again  with  a  snap. 

"I  may  say  what  I  like  of  my  own  !"  said  the 
father.  "Tell  me  the  goblin  is  none  of  mine,  and 
I  will  be  as  respectful  to  him  as  you  please.  Prove 
it,  and  I  will  give  you  fifty  pounds.  He's  ugly  I 
He's  hideous  !     Deny  it  if  you  can." 

The  woman  held  her  peace.  She  could  not,  even 
to  herself,  call  him  a  child  pleasant  to  look  at.  She 
gazed  on  him  for  a  moment  with  pitiful,  protective 
eyes,  then  covered  his  face  as  if  he  were  dead.  But 
she  did  not  move. 

"Why  don't  you  go  .?  "  said  the  baronet. 

Instead  of  replying,  she  began,  as  by  a  suddenly 
confirmed  resolve,  to  remove  the  coverings  at  the 
other  end  of  the  bundle,  and  presently  disclosed  the 
baby's  feet.  The  baronet  gazed  wondering.  To 
what  might  not  assurance  be  about  to  subject  him.^ 
She  took  one  of  the  little  feet  in  a  hard  but  gentle 
hand,  and  spreading  out  "the  pink,  five-beaded 
baby-toes,"  displayed  what  even  the  inexperience 
of  the  baronet  could  not  but  recognize  as  remark- 
able :  between  every  pair  of  toes  was  stretched  a 
thin,  delicate  membrane.  She  laid  the  foot  down, 
took  up  the  other,  and  showed  the  same  peculiarity. 
The  child  was  web-footed,  as  distinctly  as  any  prop- 
erly constituted  duckling  !  Then  she  lifted,  one 
after  the  other,  the  tiny  hands,  beautiful  to  any  eye 
that  understood,  and  showed  between  the  middle 
and  third  finger  of  each,  the  same  sort  of  membrane 
rising  half-way  to  the  points  of  them. 


FATHER,    CHILD,     AND    NURSE.  I  5 


"I  see  !  "  said  the  baronet,  with  a  laugh  that  was 
not  nice,  having  in  it  no  merriment,  "  the  creature  . 
is  a  monster  ! — Well,  if  you  think  I  am  to  blame,  I 
can  only  protest  you  are  mistaken.  /  am  not  web- 
footed  !  The  duckness  must  come  from  the  other 
side." 

"  I  hope  you  will  remember,  Sir  Wilton  !  " 

"Remember.?  What  do  you  mean.?  Take  the 
monster  away." 

The  woman  rearranged  the  coverings  of  the  little 
crooked  legs. 

"Won't  you  look  at  your  lady  before  they  put 
her  in  her  coffin  ?  "  she  said  when  she  had  done. 

"What  good  would  that  do  her.?  She's  past 
caring  ! — No,  I  won't :  why  should  I  ?  Such  sights 
are  not  pleasant." 

"'  The  coffin's  a  lonely  chamber,  Sir  Wilton  ;  lonely 
to  lie  all  day  and  all  night  in  ! " 

"No  lonelier  for  one  than  for  another  !  "  he  replied, 
with  an  involuntary  recoil  from  his  own  words. 
For  the  one  thing  a  man  must  believe— yet  hardly 
believes — is,  that  he  shall  one  day  die.  "She'll  be 
better  without  me,  anyhow  !  " 

"  You  are  heartless,  Sir  Wilton  !  " 

"Mind  your  own  business.  If  I  choose  to  be 
heartless,  I  may  have  my  reasons.  Take  the  child 
away." 

Still  she  did  not  move.  The  baby,  young  as  he 
was,  had  thrown  the  blanket  from  his  face,  and  the 
father's  eyes  were  fixed  on  it ;  while  he  gazed  the 
nurse  would  not  stir.  He  seemed  fascinated  by  its 
ugliness.  Without  absolute  deformity,  the  child 
was  indeed  as  unsightly  as  infant  welh  could  be. 

"  My  God  !  "  he  said  again — for  he  had  a   trick  of 


THERE    AND    BACK. 


crying- out  as  if  he  had  a  God — "  the  little  brute  hates 
me  !  Take  it  away,  woman.  Take  it  away  before 
I  strangle  it !  I  can't  answer  for  myself  if  it  keeps 
on  looking  at  me !  " 

With  a  glance  whose  mingled  anger  and  scorn 
the  father  did  not  see,  the  nurse  turned  and  went. 

He  kept  staring  after  her  till  the  door  shut,  then 
fell  back  into  his  chair,  exclaiming  once  more,  "My 
God  !  " — What  or  whom  he  meant  by  the  word,  it 
were  hard  to  say. 

"Is  it  possible,"  he  said  to  himself,  "that  the  fine 
woman  I  married — for  she  was  a  fine  woman, 
a  deuced  fine  woman  1 — should  have  died  to  present 
the  world  with  such  a  travesty  !  It's  like  nothing 
human  !  It's  an  affront  to  the  family  !  Ah  !  the 
strain  will  show  !  They  say  your  sins  will  find  you 
out  !  It  was  a  sin  to  marry  the  woman  !  What 
a  fool  I  was  !  But  she  bewitched  me  !  I  was  be- 
witched.— Curse  the  little  monster  !  I  shan't  breathe 
again  till  I'm  out  of  the  house  !  Where  was  the 
doctor.?  He  ought  to  have  seen  to  it!  Hang  it 
all,  I'll  go  abroad  !  " 

Ugly  as  the  child  was,  however,  to  many  an  eye 
the  first  thing  evident  in  him  would  have  been  his 
strong  likeness  to  his  father — whose  features  were 
perfect,  though  at  the  moment,  and  at  many  a  mo- 
ment, their  expression  was  other  than  attractive. 
Sir  Wilton  disliked  children,  and  the  dislike  was 
mutual.  Never  did  child  run  to  him  ;  never  was 
child  unwilling  to  leave  him.  Escaping  from  his 
grasp,  he  would  turn  and  look  back,  like  Christian 
emerging  from  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow,  as  if  to 
weigh  the  peril  he  had  been  in. 

As  tenderly  as  if  he  had  been  the  loveliest  of  God's 


FATHER,    CHILD,     AND    NURSE.  1 7 


children,  the  woman  bore  her  charge  up  staircases, 
and  through  corridors  and  passages,  to  the  remote 
nursery,  where,  in  a  cradle  whose  gay  furniture  con- 
trasted sadly  with  the  countenance  of  the  child  and 
the  fierceness  of  her  own  eyes,  she  gently  laid  him 
down.  But  long  after  he  was  asleep,  she  continued 
to  bend  over  him,  as  if  with  difficulty  restraining  her- 
self from  clasping  him  again  to  her  bosom. 

There  was  a  dramatic  fitness  even  in  the  selection 
of  this  outspoken  nurse  who  was  now  the  baby's  only 
protector.     For  she  was  the  child's  aunt. 

Jane  Tuke  had  been  married  four  or  five  years,  but 
had  no  children,  and  the  lack  seemed  to  have  inten- 
sified her  maternity.  Elder  sister  to  Lady  Lestrange, 
she  had  gone  gladly  to  receive  her  child  in  her  arms, 
and  had  watched  and  waited  for  it  with  an  expecta- 
tion far  stronger  than  that  of  the  mother;  for  so 
thorough  was  Lady  Lestrange's  disappointment  in  her 
husband,  that  she  regarded  the  advent  of  his  child 
almost  with  indifference.  Jane  had.  an  absolute 
passion  for  children.  She  had  married  a  quarter  for 
faith,  a  quarter  for  love,  and  a  whole  half  for  hope. 
This  divinely  inexplicable  child-passion  is  as  unintel- 
ligible to  those  devoid  of  it,  as  its  absence  is  marvel- 
lous to  those  possessed  by  it.  Its  presence  is  its 
justification,  its  being  its  sole  explanation,  itself  its 
highest  reason.  Surely  on  those  who  cherish  it,  the 
shadow  of  the  love-creative  God  must  rest  more  than 
on  some  other  women  !  Unpleasing  as  was  the  in- 
fant, to  know  him  her  own  would  have  made  the 
world  a  paradise  to  Jane.  Her  heart  burned  with 
divine  indignation  at  the  wrongs  already  heaped  upon 
him.  Hardly  born,  he  was  persecuted  !  Ugly  !  he 
was  not  ugly  !     Was  he  not  come  straight  from  the 

2 


THERE    AND    BACK. 


fountain  of  life,  from  the  Father  of  children  !  That 
such  a  father  as  she  had  left  in  the  library  should  re- 
pudiate him  was  well  !  She  loved  to  think  of  his 
rejection.  She  brooded  with  delight,  in  the  midst  of 
her  wrath,  on  every  word  of  disgust  that  had  fallen 
from  his  unfatherly  lips.  The  more  her  baby  was 
rejected,  the  more  he  was  hers  !  He  belonged  to 
her,  and  her  only,  for  she  only  loved  him  !  She 
could  say  with  France  in  King  Lear,  "Be  it  lawful  I 
fake  up  what's  cast  away  !  "  To  her  the  despised 
one  was  the  essence  of  all  riches.  The  joy  of  a  miser 
is  less  than  the  joy  of  a  mother,  as  gold  is  less  than 
a  live  soul,  as  greed  is  less  than  love.  No  vision  of 
jewels  ever  gave  such  a  longing  as  this  woman 
longed  with  after  the  child  of  her  dead  sister. 

The  body  that  bore  was  laid  in  the  earth,  the  thing 
born  was  left  upon  it.  The  mother  had  but  come, 
exposed  her  infant  on  the  rough  shore  of  time,  and 
forsaken  him  in  his  nakedness.  There  he  lay,  not 
knowing  whejice  he  came,  or  whither  he  was  going, 
urged  to  live  by  a  hunger  and  thirst  he  had  not  in- 
vented, and  did  not  understand.  His  mother  had 
helplessly  forsaken  him,  but  the  God  in  another 
woman  had  taken  him  up  :  there  was  a  soul  to  love 
him,  two  arms  to  carry  him,  and  a  strong  heart  to 
shelter  him. 

Sir  Wilton  returned  to  London,  and  there  enjoyed 
himself — not  much,  but  a  little  the  more  that  no 
woman  sat  at  Mortgrange  with  a  right  to  complain 
that  he  took  his  pleasure  without  her.  He  lived  the 
life  of  the  human  animals  frequenting  the  society  of 
their  kind  from  a  gregarious  instinct,  and  for  common 
yet  opposing  self-ends.  He  had  begun  to  assume 
the  staidness,  if  not  dullness,  of  the  animal  whose 


FATHER,    CHILD,    AND    NURSE.  1 9 

first  youth  has  departed,  but  he  was  only  less  frolic- 
some, not  more  human.  He  was  settling  down  to 
what  he  had  made  himself;  no  virtue  could  claim  a 
share  in  the  diminished  rampancy  of  his  vices.  What 
a  society  is  that  which  will  regard  as  reformed  the 
man  whom  assuaging  fires  have  left  an  exhausted 
slag — a  thing  for  which  as  yet  no  use  is  known  !  who 
suggests  no  promise  of  change  or  growth,  gives  no 
poorest  hint  of  hope  concerning  his  fate  ! 

With  the  first  unrecognized  sense  of  approaching 
age,  a  certain  habit  of  his  race  began  to  affect  him, 
and  the  idea  of  a  quieter  life,  with  a  woman  whose 
possession  would  make  him  envied,  grew  mildly  at- 
tractive. A  brilliant  marriage  in  another  county 
would,  besides,  avenge  him  on  the  narrow-minded 
of  his  own,  vv^ho  had  despised  his  first  choice  !  With 
judicial  family-eye  he  surveyed  the  eligible  women 
of  his  acquaintance.  It  was,  no  doubt,  to  his  dis- 
advantage that  already  an  heir  lay  "mewling  and 
puking  in  the  nurse's  arms ; "  for  a  woman  who 
might  willingly  be  mother  to  the  inheritor  of  such  a 
property  as  his,  might  not  find  attractive  the  notion 
of  her  first  being  her  husband's  second  son.  But 
slips  between  cups  and  lips  were  not  always  on  the 
wrong  side  !  Such  a  moon-calf  as  Robina's  son 
could  not  with  justice  represent  the  handsomest  man 
and  one  of  the  handsomest  women  of  their  time. 
The  heir  that  fate  had  palmed  upon  him  might  very 
well  be  doomed  to  go  the  way  so  many  infants 
went  ! 

He  spread  the  report  that  the  boy  was  sickly.  A 
notion  that  he  was  not  likely  to  live  "prevailed  about 
Mortgrange,  which,  however  originated,  was  nour- 
ished doubtless  by  the  fac-t  that  he  was  so  seldom 


THERE    AND    BACK. 


seen.  In  reality,  however,  there  was  not  a  healthier 
child  in  all  England  th~an  Richard  Lestrange. 

Sir  Wilton's  relations  took  as  little  interest  in  the  heir 
as  himself,  and  there  was  no  inducement  for  any  of 
them  to  visit  Mortgrange  ;  the  aunt-mother,  therefore, 
had  her  own  way  with  him.  She  was  not  liked  in 
the  house.  The  servants  said  she  cared  only  for  the 
little  toad  of  a  baronet,  and  would  do  nothing  for  her 
comfort.  They  had,  however,  just  a  shadow  of 
respect  for  her  :  if  she  encouraged  no  familiarity,  she 
did  not  meddle,  and  was  independent  of  their  aid. 
Even  the  milking  of  the  cow  which  had  been,  through 
her  persistence,  set  apart  for  the  child,  she  did  her- 
self. She  sought  no  influence  in  the  house,  and  was 
nothing  loved  and  little  heeded. 

Sir  Wilton  had  not  again  seen  his  heir,  who  was 
now  almost  a  year  old,  when  the  rumor  reached 
Mortgrange  that  the  baronet  was  about  to  be  married. 

Naturally,  the  news  was  disquieting  to  Jane.  The 
hope,  however,  was  left  her,  that  the  stepmother 
might  care  as  little  for  the  child  as  did  the  father,  and 
that  so,  for  some  years  at  least,  he  might  be  left  to 
her.  It  was  a  terrible  thought  to  the  loving  woman 
that  they  might  be  parted  ;  a  more  terrible  thought 
that  her  baby  might  become  a  man  like  his  father. 
Of  all  horrors  to  a  decent  woman,  a  bad  man  must 
be  the  worst !  If  by  her  death  she  could  have  left 
the  child  her  hatred  of  evil,  Jane  would  have  will- 
ingly died  :  she  loved  her  husband,  but  her  sister's 
boy  was  in  danger  1 


CHAPTER  II. 

STEPMOTHER   AND    NURSE. 

The  rumor  of  Sir  Wilton's  marriage  was,  as  rumor 
seldom  is,  correct.  Before  the  year  was  out,  Lady- 
Ann  Hardy,  sister  to  the  Earl  of  Torpavy,  represent- 
ing- an  old  family  with  a  drop  or  two  of  very  bad 
blood  in  it,  became  Lady  Ann  Lestrange.  How  much 
love  there  may  have  been  in  the  affair,  it  is  unneces- 
sary to  inquire,  seeing  the  baronet  was  what  he  was, 
and  the  lady  understood  the  what  pretty  well.  She 
might  have  preferred  a  husband  not  so  much  what 
Sir  Wilton  was,  but  she  wasnine-and-twenty,  and  her 
brother  was  poor.  She  said  to  herself,  I  suppose, 
that  she  might  as  well  as  another  undertake  his  reform : 
some  one  must  !  and  married  him.  She  had  not 
much  of  a  trousseau,  but  was  gorgeously  attired  for 
the  wedding.  It  is  true  she  had  to  return  to  the  Earl 
three-fourths  of  the  jewels  she  wore  ;  but  they  were 
family  jewels,  and  why  should  she  not  have  some 
good  of  them .?  She  started  with  fifty  pounds  of  her 
own  in  her  pocket,  and  a  demeanor  in  her  person 
equal  to  fifty  millions.  When  they  arrived  at  Mort- 
grange,  the  moon  was  indeed  still  in  the  sky,  but  the 
honey-pot,  to  judge  by  the  appearance  of  the  twain, 
was  empty  :  twain  they  were,  and  twain  would  be. 
The  man  wore  a  look  of  careless  all-rightness,  tinged 
with  an   expression   of  indifferent  triumph  :  he  had 


2  2  THERE    AND    BACK. 

what  he  wanted  ;  what  his  lady  might  think  of  her 
side  of  the  bargain,  he  neither  thought  nor  cared.  As 
to  the  woman,  let  her  reflections  be  what  they  might, 
not  a  soul  would  come  to  the  knowledge  of  them. 
Whatever  it  was  to  others,  her  pale,  handsome  face 
was  never  false  to  herself,  never  betrayed  what  she 
was  thinking,  never  broke  the  shallow  surface  of  its 
frozen  dignity.  Will  any  man  ever  know  how  a 
woman  of  ordinary  decency  feels  after  selling  herself .-' 
I  find  the  thing  hardly  safe  to  ponder.  No  trace,  no 
shadow  of  disappointment  clouded  the  countenance 
of  Lady  Ann  that  sultry  summer  afternoon  as  she 
drove  up  the  treeless  avenue.  The  education  she  had 
received — and  education  in  the  worst  sense  it  was ! 
for  it  had  brought  out  the  worst  in  her — had  rendered 
her  less  than  human.  The  form  of  her  earthly  pres- 
ence had  been  trained  to  a  fashionable  perfection  ; 
her  nature  had  not  been  left  unaided  in  its  reversion 
toward  the  vague  animal  type  from  which  it  was 
developed  :  in  the  curve  of  her  thin  lips  as  they  pre- 
pared to  smile,  one  could  discern  the  veiled  snarl  and 
bite.  Her  eyes  were  gra)'-,  her  eyebrows  dark  ;  her 
complexion  was  a  clear  fair,  her  nose  perfect,  except 
for  a  sharp  pinch  at  the  end  of  the  bone  ;  her  nostrils 
were  thin  but  motionless  ;  her  chin  was  defective, 
and  her  throat  as  slender  as  her  horrible  waist ;  her 
hands  and  feet  were  large  even  for  '"  her  tall  person- 
age." 

After  his  lady  had  had  a  cu]-)  of  tea,  Sir  Wilton,  for 
something  to  do,  proposed  taking  her  over  the  house, 
which  was  old,  and  worthy  of  inspection.  In  their 
progress  they  came  to  a  door  at  the  end  of  a  long  and 
rather  tortuous  ])assage.  Sir  Wilton  did  not  know  how 
the  room  was  occupied,  or  he  would  doubtless  have 


STEPMOTHER    AND    NURSE.  23 

passed  it  by  ;  but  as  its  windows  g^ave  a  fine  view  of 
the  park,  he  opened  the  door,  and  Lady  Ann  entered. 
Sudden  displeasure  shortened  her  first  step  ;  pride  or 
something  worse  lengthened  the  next,   as  she  bore 
down  on  a  woman  too   much  occupied  with  a  child 
on  her  knee  to  look  up  at  the  sound  of  her  entrance. 
When,  a  moment  after,  she  did  look  up,  the  dreaded 
stepmother  was  looking  straight  down  on  her  baby. 
Their  eyes  encountered.     Jane  met  an  icy  stare,  and 
Lady  Ann  a  gaze  of  defiance — an  expression  by  this 
time  almost  fixed  on  the  face  of  the  nurse,  for  in  her 
spirit  she  heard  every  unspoken  remark  on  her  child. 
Not  a  word  did  the  lady  utter,  but  to  Jane,  her  eyes, 
her  very  breath,  seemed  to  say  with  scorn,    "  Is  that 
the  heir  ?  "     Sir  Wilton  did  not  venture  a  single  look  : 
he  was  ashamed  of  his  son,  and  already  a  little  afraid 
of  his  wife,  whom  he  had  once  seen  close  her  rather 
large  teeth  in  a  notable  way.     As  she  turned  toward 
the  window,  however,  he  stole  a  glance  at  his  off- 
spring :  the  creature  was  not  quite  so  ugly  as  before 
— not   quite   so    repulsive  as  he  had  pictured  him  ! 
But,  good  heavens  !  he  was  on  the  lap  of  the  same 
woman  whose  fierceness   had  upset  him  almost  as 
much   as  his  child's   ugliness  !     He  walked  to  the 
window  after  his  wife.     She  gazed  for  a  moment, 
turned  with  indifference,  and  left  the  room.      Her  hus- 
band followed  her.     A  glance  of  fear,   dislike   and 
defiance  went  after  them  from  Jane. 

Stronger  contrast  than  those  two  women  it  would 
be  hard  to  find.  Jane's  countenance  was  almost 
coarse,  but  its  rugged  outline  was  almost  grand.  Her 
hair  grew  low  down  on  her  forehead,  and  she  had 
deep-set  eyes.  Her  complexion  was  rough,  her  nose 
large   and  thick.      Her  mouth  was  large  also,    but, 


THERE    AND    BACK. 


when  unaffected  by  her  now  almost  habitual  antag- 
onism, the  curve  of  her  lip  was  sweet,  and  occasion- 
ally humorous.  Her  chin  was  strong,  and  the  total 
of  her  face  what  we  call  masculine  ;  but  when  she 
silently  regarded  her  child,  it  grew  beautiful  with  the 
radiant  tenderness  of  protection. 

Her  visitors  left  the  door  open  behind  them  ;  Jane 
rose  and  shut  it,  sat  down  again,  and  gazed  motion- 
less at  the  infant.  Perhaps  he  vaguely  understood 
the  sorrow  and  dread  of  her  countenance,  for  he 
pulled  a  long  face  of  his  own,  and  was  about  to  cry. 
Jane  clasped  him  to  her  bosom  in  an  agony  ;  she 
felt  certain  she  would  not  long  be  permitted  to  hold 
him  there.  In  the  silent  speech  of  my  lady's  mouth, 
her  jealous  love  saw  the  doom  of  her  darling.  What 
precise  doom  she  dared  not  ask  herself ;  it  was  more 
than  enough  that  she,  indubitably  his  guardian  as  if 
sent  from  heaven  to  shield  him,  must  abandon  him 
to  his  natural  enemy,  one  who  looked  upon  him  as 
the  adversary  of  her  own  children.  It  was  a  thought 
not  to  be  thought,  an  idea  for  which  there  should  be 
no  place  in  her  bosom  !  Unfathomable  as  the  love 
between  man  and  woman  is  the  love  of  woman  to 
child. 

She  spent  a  wakeful  night.  From  the  decree  of 
banishment  sure  to  go  forth  against  her,  there  was 
no  appeal  !  Go  she  must !  Yet  her  heart  cried  out 
that  he  was  her  own.  In  the  same  lap  his  mother 
had  lain  before  him  !  She  had  carried  her  by  day, 
and  at  night  folded  her  in  the  same  arms,  herself  but 
six  years  old — old  enough  to  remember  yet  the  rich- 
ness unspeakable  of  her  new  possession.  Never  liad 
come  difference  betwixt  them  until  Robina  began  to 
give  ear  to  Sir  Wilton,  whom  Jane  could  not  endure. 


STEPMOTHER    AND    NURSE.  25 

When  she  responded,  as  she  did  at  once,  to  her  sis- 
ter's cry  for  her  help,  she  made  her  promise  that  no 
one  should  understand  who  she  was,  but  that  she 
should  in  the  house  be  taken  for  and  treated  as  a 
hired  nurse.  Why  Jane  stipulated  thus,  it  were  hard 
to  say,  but  so  careful  were  they  both,  that  no  one  at 
Mortgrange  suspected  the  nurse  as  personally  inter- 
ested in  the  ugly  heir  left  in  her  charge  !  No  one 
dreamed  that  the  child's  aunt  had  forsaken  her  hus- 
band to  nurse  him,  and  was  living  for  him  day  and 
night.  She,  in  her  turn,  had  promised  her  sister 
never  to  leave  him,  and  this  pledge  strengthened  the 
bond  of  her  passion.  The  only  question  was  hoiv 
she  was  to  be  faithful  to  her  pledge,  how  to  carry 
matters  when  she  was  turned  away.  With  those 
thin,  close-pressed  lips  in  her  mind's  eye,  she  could 
'not  count  on  remaining  where  she  was  beyond  a 
few  days. 

She  was  not  only  a  woman  capable  of  making  up 
her  mind,  but  a  woman  of  resource,  with  the  advan- 
tage of  having  foreseen  and  often  pondered  the  pos- 
sibility of  that  which  was  now  imminent.  The  same 
night,  silent  above  the  sleep  of  her  darling,  she  sat 
at  work  with  needle  and  scissors  far  into  the  morning, 
remodelling  an  old  print  dress.  For  nights  after,  she 
was  similarly  occupied,  though  not  a  scrap  or  sign 
of  the  labor  was  visible  in  the  morning. 

The  crisis  anticipated  came  within  a  fortnight. 
Lady  Ann  did  not  show  herself  a  second  time  in  the 
nursery,  but  sending  for  Jane,  informed  her  that  an 
experienced  nurse  was  on  her  way  from  London  to 
take  charge  of  the  child,  and  her  services  would  not 
be  required  after  the  next  morning. 

"For,  of  course,  "concluded  her  ladyship,  "I  could 


26  THERE    AND    HACK. 


not  expect  a  woman  of  your  years  to  take  an  under- 
nurse's  place  !  " 

"  Please,  your  ladyship,  I  will  gladly,"  said  Jane, 
eager  to  avoid  or  at  least  postpone  the  necessity 
forcing  itself  upon  her. 

"  I  intend  you  to  go — and  ato?ice,"  replied  her  lady- 
ship :  " — that  is,  the  moment  Mrs.  Thornycroft 
arrives.  The  housekeeper  will  take  car-e  that  you 
have  your  month's  wages  in  lieu  of  warning." 

"Very  well,  my  lady! — Please,  your  ladyship, 
when  may  I  come  and  see  the  child .? " 

"Not  at  all.     There  is  no  necessity." 

"  Never,  my  lady  .?  " 

'•  Decidedly." 

"  Then  at  least  I  may  ask  why  you  send  me  away 
so  suddenly  !  " 

"I  told  you  that  I  want  a  properly  qualified  nurse  < 
to  take  your  place.      My  wish  is  to  have  the  child 
more  immediately  under  my  own  eye  than  would 
be  agreeable  if  you  kept  your  place.     I  hope  I  speak 
plainly  !  " 

"  Quite,  my  lady." 

"And  let  me,  for  your  own  sake,  recommend  you 
to  behave  more  respectiully  when  you  find  another 
place." 

What  she  was  doing  Lady  Ann  was  incapable  of 
knowing.  A  woman  love-brooding  over  a  child  is 
at  the  gate  of  heaven  ;  to  take  her  child  from  her  is 
to  turn  her  away  from  more  than  paradise. 

Jane  went  in  silence,  seeming  to  accept  the  inevi- 
table, too  proud  to  wipe  away  the  tear  whose  rising 
she  could  not  help — o.  tear  not  for  herself,  nor  yet  for 
the  child,  but  for  the  dead  mother  in  whose  place 
she  left  such  a  woman.     She  walked  slowly  back  to 


STEPMOTHER    AND    NURSE.  27 

the  nursery,  where  her  charge  was  asleep,  closed  the 
door,  sat  down  by  the  cot,  and  sat  for  a  while  with- 
out moving.  Then  her  countenance  began  to  change, 
and  slowly  went  on  changing,  until  at  last,  as  through 
a  mist  of  troubled  emotion,  out  upon  the  strong, 
rugged  face  broke,  with  strange  suggestion  of  a  sun- 
set, the  glow  of  resolve  and  justified  desire.  A  maid 
more  friendly  than  the  rest  brought  her  some  tea, 
but  Jane  said  nothing  of  what  had  occurred.  When 
the  child  awoke,  she  fed  him,  and  played  with  him 
a  long  time — till  he  was  thoroughly  tired,  when  she 
undressed  him,  and  laying  him  down,  set  about  pre- 
paring his  evening  meal.  No  one  could  have  per- 
ceived in  her  any  difference,  except  indeed  it  were  a 
subdued  excitement  in  her  glowing  eyes.  When  it 
was  ready,  she  went  to  her  box,  took  from  it  a  small 
bottle,  and  poured  a  few  dark-colored  drops  into  the 
food. 

"God  forgive  me  !  it's  but  this  once  !  "  she  mur- 
mured. 

The  child  seemed  not  quite  to  relish  his  supper, 
but  did  not  refuse  it,  and  was  presently  asleep  in  her 
arms.  She  laid  him  down,  took  a  book,  and  began 
to  read. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE    FLIGHT. 

She  read  until  every  sound  had  died  in  the  house, 
every  sound  from  garret  to  cellar,  except  the  ticking 
of  clock,  and  the  tinkling  cracks  of  sinking  fires  and 
cooling  grates.  In  the  regnant  silence  she  rose,  laid 
aside  her  book,  softly  opened  the  door,  and  stepped 
as  softly  into  the  narrow  passage.  A  moment  or 
two  she  listened,  then  stole  on  tiptoe  to  the  main  cor- 
ridor, and  again  listened.  She  went  next  to  the  head 
of  the  great  stair,  and  once  more  stood  and  listened. 
Then  she  crept  down  to  the  drawing-room,  saw  that 
there  was  no  light  in  the  library,  billiard-room  or 
smoking-room,  and  with  stealthy  feet  returned  to  the 
nursery.  There  she  closed  the  door  she  had  left 
open,  and  took  the  child.  He  lay  in  her  arms  like 
one  dead.  She  removed  everything  he  wore,  and 
dressed  him  in  the  garments  which  for  the  last  fort- 
night she  had  been  making  for  him  from  clothes  of 
her  own.  When  she  had  done,  he  looked  like  any 
cottager's  child  ;  there  was  nothing  in  his  face  to 
contradict  his  attire.  She  regarded  the  result  for  a 
moment  with  a  triumph  of  satisfaction,  laid  him 
down,  and  proceeded  to  put  away  the  clothes  he  had 
worn. 

Over  the  top  of  the  door  was  a  small  cupboard  in 
the  wall,  into  which  she  had  never  looked  until  the 
day  before,  when  she  opened  it  and  found  it  empty. 


THE    FLIGHT.  29 


She  placed  a  table  under  it,  and  a  chair  on  the  table, 
climbed  up,  laid  in  it  everything  she  had  taken  off 
the  child,  locked  the  door  of  it,  put  the  key  in  her 
pocket,  and  got  down.  Then  she  took  the  cloak 
and  hood  he  had  hitherto  worn  out  of  doors,  laid 
them  down  beside  the  wardrobe,  and  lifting  the 
end  of  it  with  a  strength  worthy  of  the  blacksmith's 
daughter,  pushed  them  with  her  foot  into  the  hollow 
between  the  bottom  of  the  wardrobe  and  the  floor 
of  the  room.  This  done,  she  looked  at  the  time- 
piece on  the  mantelshelf,  saw  it  was  one  o'clock, 
and  sat  down  to  recover  her  breath.  But  the  next 
moment  she  was  on  her  knees^  sobbing.  By  and 
by  she  rose,  wiped  the  hot  tears  from  her  eyes,  and 
went  carefully  about  the  room,  gathering  up  this  and 
that,  and  putting  it  into  her  box.  Then  having 
locked  it,  she  stuffed  a  number  of  small  pieces  of 
paper  into  the  lock,  using  a  crochet-needle  to  get 
them  well  among  the  wards.  Lastly,  she  put  on  a 
dress  she  had  never  worn  at  Mortgrange,  took  up 
the  child,  who  was  still  in  a  dead  sleep,  wrapped 
him  in  an  old  shawl,  and  stole  with  him  from  the 
room. 

Like  those  of  a  thief — or  murderess  rather,  her 
scared  eyes  looked  on  this  side  and  that,  as  she  crept 
to  a  narrow  stair  that  led' to  the  kitchen.  She  knew 
every  turn  and  every  opening  in  this  part  of  the 
house  :  for  weeks  she  had  been  occupied,  both  in- 
tellect and  imagination,  with  the  daring  idea  she 
was  now  carrying  into  effect. 

She  reached  the  one  door  that  might  yield  a  safe 
exit,  unlocked  it  noiselessly,  and  stood  in  a  little 
paved  yard  with  a  pump,  whence  another  door  in 
an  ivy-covered  wall  opened  into  the  kitchen-garden. 


30  THERE    AND    BACK. 

The  moon  shone  large  and  clear,  but  the  shadow  of 
the  house  protected  her.  It  was  the  month  of 
August,  warm  and  still.  If  only  it  had  been  dark  ! 
Outside  the  door  she  was  still  in  the  shadow.  For 
the  first  time  in  her  life  she  loved  the  darkness. 
Along  the  wall  she  stole  as  if  clinging  to  it.  Yet 
another  door  led  into  a  shrubbery  surrounding  the 
cottage  of  the  head-gardener,  whence  a  back-road 
led  to  a  gate,  over  which  she  could  climb,  so  to 
reach  the  highway,  along  whose  honest,  unshadowed 
spaces  she  must  walk  miles  and  miles  before  she 
could  even  hope  herself  safe. 

She  stood  at  length  in  the  broad  moonlight,  on  the 
white,  far-reaching  road.  Her  heart  beat  so  fast  as 
almost  to  stifle  her.  She  dared  not  look  down  at 
the  child,  lest  some  one  should  see  her  and  look 
also  !  The  moon  herself  had  an  aspect  of  suspicion  ! 
Why  did  she  keep  staring  so  ?  For  an  instant  she 
wished  herself  back  in  the  nursery.  But  she  knew 
it  would  only  be  to  do  it  all  over  again  :  it  had  to  be 
done  !  Leave  the  child  of  her  sister  where  he  was 
counted  in  the  way  !  with  those  who  hated  him ! 
where  his  helpless  life  was  in  danger  !  She  could 
not! 

But,  while  she  thought,  she  did  not  stand.  Softly, 
with  great  strides  she  went  stalking  along  the  road. 
She  knew  the  country  :  she  was  not  many  miles 
from  her  father's  forge,  whence  at  moments  she 
seemed  to  hear  the  ring  of  his  hammer  through  the 
still  night. 

She  kept  to  the  road  for  three  or  four  miles,  then 
turned  aside  on  a  great  moor  stretching  far  to  the 
south  :  daybreak  was  coming  fast ;  she  must  find 
some  cottage  or  natural  shelter,  lest  the  light  should 


THE    FLIGHT.  3  I 


betray  her.  When  the  sun  had  made  his  round,  and 
yielded  his  place  to  the  friendly  night,  she  would 
start  afresh  !  In  her  bundle  she  had  enough  for  the 
baby  ;  for  herself,  she  could  hold  out  many  hours 
unfed.  A  few  more  miles  from  Mortgrange,  and  no 
one  would  know  her !  neither  from  any  possible 
description  could  they  be  suspected  in  the  garments 
they  wore  !  Her  object  in  hiding  their  usual  attire 
had  been  that  it  might  be  taken  for  granted  they  had 
gone  away  in  it. 

She  did  not  slacken  her  pace  till  she  had  walked 
five  miles  more.  Then  she  stood  a  moment,  and 
gazed  about  her.  The  great  heath  was  all  around, 
solitary  as  the  heaven  out  of  which  the  solitary  moon, 
with  no  child  to  comfort  her,  was  enviously  watch- 
ing  them.  But  she  would  not  stop  to  rest,  save  for 
the  briefest  breathing  space  !  On  and  on  she  went 
until  moorland  miles  five  more,  as  near  as  she  could 
judge,  were  behind  her.  Then  at  length  she  sat 
down  upon  a  stone,  and  a  timid  flutter  of  safety 
stirred  in  her  bosom,  followed  by  a  gush  of  love  vic- 
torious. Her  treasure  !  her  treasure  !  Not  once  on 
the  long  way  had  she  looked  at  him.  Now  she 
folded  back  the  shawl,  and  gazed  as  not  even  a  lover 
could  have  gazed  on  the  sleeping  countenance  of  his 
rescued  bride.  The  passion  of  no  other  possession' 
could  have  equalled  the  intensity  of  her  conscious 
having.  Not  one  created  being  had  a  right  to  the 
child  but  herself!— yet  any  moment  he  might  be 
taken  from  her  by  a  cold-hearted,  cruel  stepmother, 
and  given  to  a  hired  woman  !  She  started  to  her 
feet,  and  hurried  on.  The  boy  was  no  light  weight, 
and  she  had  things  to  carry  besides,  which  her  love 
said    he    could   not   do  without  ;    yet   before  seven 


32 


THERE    AND    BACK. 


o'clock  she  had  cleared  some  sixteen  miles,  in  a  line 
from  Mortgrange  as  straight  as  she  could  keep. 

She  thought  she  must  now  be  near  a  village  whose 
name  she  knew  ;  but  she  dared  not  show  herself  lest 
some  advertisement  might  reach  it  after  she  was 
gone,  and  lead  to  the  discovery  of  the  route  she  had 
taken.  She  turned  aside  therefore  into  an  old  quarry, 
there  to  spend  the  day,  unvisited  of  human  soul. 
The  child  was  now  awake,  but  still  drowsy.  She 
gave  him  a  little  food,  and  ate  the  crust  she  had 
saved  from  her  tea  the  night  before.  During  the 
long  hours  she  slept  a  good  deal  by  fits,  and  when 
the  evening  came,  was  quite  fit  to  resume  her  tramp. 
To  her  joy  it  came  cloudy,  giving  her  courage  to 
enter  a  little  shop  she  saw  on  the  outskirts  of  the 
village,  and  buy  some  milk  and  some  bread.  From 
this  point  she  kept  the  road  :  she  might  now  avail 
herself  of  help  from  cart  or  wagon.  She  was  not 
without  money,  but  feared  the  railway. 

It  is  needless  to  follow  her  wanderings,  always 
toward  London,  where  was  her  husband,  and  her 
home.  A  weary,  but  happy,  and  almost  no  longer 
an  anxious  woman,  she  reached  at  length  a  certain 
populous  suburb,  and  was  soon  in  the  arms  of  her 
husband. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE    BOOKBINDER    AND    HIS    PUPIL. 

It  was  the  middle  of  the  day  before  they  were 
missed.  Their  absence  caused  for  a  time  no  com- 
motion ;  the  servants  said  nurse  must  have  taken  the 
child  for  his  usual  walk.  But  when  the  nurse  from 
London  came,  and,  after  renewed  search  and  inquiry, 
nothing-  was  heard  of  them,  their  disappearance 
could  no  longer  be  kept  from  Lady  Ann.  She  sent 
to  inform  her  husband. 

Sir  Wilton  asked  a  question  or  two  of  her  mes- 
senger, said  the  thing  must  be  seen  to,  finished  his 
cigar,  threw  the  stump  in  the  fire,  and  went  to  his 
wife ;  when  at  once  they  began  to  discuss,  not  the 
steps  to  be  taken  for  the  recovery  of  the  child,  but 
the  woman's  motive  for  stealing  him.  The  lady  in- 
sisted it  was  revenge  for  having  been  turned  away, 
and  that  she  would,  as  soon  as  she  reached  a  suit- 
able place,  put  an  end  to  his  life  :  she  had  seen 
murder  in  her  eyes  !  The  father  opined  there  was 
no  such  danger  :  he  remembered,  though  he  did  not 
mention  it,  the  peculiarity  of  the  woman's  behavior 
when  first  he  saw  her.  There  was  no  limit,  he  said, 
to  the  unnatural  fancies  of  women  ;  some  were  dis- 
gustingly fond  of  children,  even  of  other  women's 
children.  Plain  as  the  infant  was,  he  did  not  doubt 
she  had  taken  a  fancy  to  him,  and  therefore  de- 
clined to  part  with  him.  The  element  of  revenge 
3 


34  THERE    AND    BACK. 

might,  he  allowed,  have  a  share  in  the  deed ; 
but  that  would  be  satisfied  with  leaving-  them  in 
doubt  of  his  fate.  For  his  part,  he  made  her  wel- 
come to  him  !  To  this  Lady  Ann  gave  no  answer  :  she 
was  not  easily  shocked,  and  could,  without  conster- 
nation, have  regarded  his  disappearance  as  final. 
But  something  must  at  least  appear  to  be  done  !  Un- 
pleasant things  might  be  said,  and  uncertainty  was 
full  of  annoyance  ! 

"You  must  be  careful,  Sir  Wilton,"  she  remarked. 
"  Nobody  thinks  you  believe  the  child  your  own." 

Sir  Wilton  laughed. 

"I  never  had  a  doubt  on  the  subject.  I  wish  I 
had  :  he's  not  to  my  credit.  If  we  never  hear  of  him 
again,  the  better  for  the  next !  " 

"  That  is  true  !  "  rejoined  Lady  Ann.  "  But  what 
if,  after  we  have  forgotten  all  about  him,  he  were  to 
turn  up  again  .-•  " 

"That  would  be  unpleasant — and  is  indeed  a 
reason  why  we  should  look  for  him.  Better  find 
him  than  live  in  doubt!  Besides,  the  world  would 
be  uncharitable  enough  to  hint  that  you  had  made 
away  with  him  :  it's  what  ought  to  have  been  done 
when  first  he  appeared.  I  glr^  you  my  word,  Ann, 
he  was  a  positive  monster  !  The  object  was  actually 
web-footed  ! — web-footed  like  any  frog  !  " 

"  You  must  let  the  police  know,"  said  the  lady, 

"That  the  child  is  wob-footed.'  No,  I  think  not," 
yawned  Sir  Wilton. 

He  got  up,  went  out,,  and  ordered  a  groom  to  ride 
hard  to  the  village — as  hard  as  he  could  go — and  let  the 
police  understand  what  had  occurred.  Within  the 
hour  a  constable  ai>peared,  come  to  inquire  when 
last  the  fugitives  were  seen,  and  what  they  wore — 


THE    BOOKBINDER    AND    HIS    PUPIL.  35 

the  answer  to  which  latter  question  set  the  police 
looking  for  persons  very  different  in  appearance  from 
Jane  and  her  nursling.  Nothing  was  heard  of  them, 
and  the  inquiry,  never  prosecuted  with  any  vigor, 
was  by  degrees  dropped  entirely. 

John  Tuke  had  grumbled  greatly  at  his  wife's  de- 
sertion of  him  for  grandees  who  would  never  thank 
her  ;  but  he  gave  in  to  the  prolongation  of  her  ab- 
sence with  a  better  grace,  when  he  learned  how  the 
motherless  baby  was  regarded  by  his  own  people. 
The  humanity  of  the  man  rose  in  defence  of  the 
injured.  He  felt  also  that,  in  espousing  the  cause  of 
his  wife's  nephew,  scorned  by  his  baronet  father,  he 
was  taking  the  part  of  his  own  down-trodden  class. 
He  was  greatly  perplexed,  however,  as  to  what  end 
the  thing  was  to  have.  Must  he  live  without  his 
wife  until  the  boy  was  sent  to  school  .-* 

He  was  in  bed  and  fast  asleep,  when  suddenly 
opening  his  eyes,  he  saw  beside  him  the  wife  he  had 
not  seen  for  twelve  months,  with  the  stolen  child  in 
her  arms.  When  he  heard  how  the  stepmother  had 
treated  her,  and  how  the  babe  was  likely  to  fare 
among  its  gentle  kin,  he  was  filled  with  fresh  indig- 
nation ;  but,  while  thoroughly  appreciating  and  ap- 
proving his  wife's  decision  and  energy,  he  saw  to 
what  the  deed  exposed  them,  and  augured  frightful 
consequences  to  the  discovery  that  seemed  almost 
certain.  But  when  he  understood  the  precautions 
she  had  taken,  and  bethought  himself  how  often  the 
police  fail,  he  had  better  hopes  of  escape.  One  thing 
he  never  dreamed  of— and  that  was,  restoring  the 
child.  Often  at  night  he  would  lie  wondering  how 
far,  in  case  of  their  being  tried  for  kidnapping,  the 
defence  would  reach,  that  his  wife  was  the  child's 


36  THERE    AND    BACK. 


aunt  ;  and  whether  the  fact  that  she  was  none  the 
less  a  poor  woman  standings  up  against  the  rich, 
would  not  render  that  or  any  plea  unavailing.  Jane 
was,  and  long  remained,  serenely  hopeful. 

When  she  left  for  Mortgrange,  they  had  agreed  that 
her  husband  should  say  she  was  gone  to  her  father's  ; 
and  as  nobody  where  they  lived  knew  who  or  where 
her  father  was,  nobody  had  the  end  of  any  clue.  For 
some  time  after  her  return  she  did  not  show  herself, 
leaving  it  to  her  husband  to  say  she  had  come  back 
with  her  baby.  Then  she  began  to  appear  with  the 
child,  and  so  managed  her  references  to  her  absence, 
that  no  one  dreamed  of  his  not  being  her  own,  or 
imagined  that  she  had  left  her  husband  for  other  reason 
than  to  be  tended  at  her  old  home  in  her  confinement. 
After  a  few  years,  even  the  fact  of  his  not  having 
been  born  in  that  house  was  forgotten  ;  and  Richard 
Lestrange  grew  up  as  the  son  of  John  Tuke,  the 
bookbinder.  Not  in  any  mind  was  there  a  doubt  as 
to  his  parentage. 

They  lived  on  the  very  bank  of  the  Thames,  in  a 
poor  part  of  a  populous,  busy,  thriving  suburb,  far 
from  fashionable,  yet  not  without  inhabitants  of  re- 
finement. Had  not  art  and  literature  sent  out  a  few 
suckers  into  it,  there  would  have  been  no  place  in  it 
for  John  Tuke.  For,  more  than  liking  his  trade, 
being  indeed  fond  of  it,  he  would  not  work  for  the 
booksellers,  but  used  his  talent  to  the  satisfaction  of 
known  customers,  of  whom  he  had  now  not  a  few,  for 
his  reputation  had  spread  beyond  the  near  neigh- 
borhood. But  while  he  worked  cheaper,  quality 
considered,  than  many  binders,  even  carefully  super- 
intending that  most  important  yet  most  neglected 
part  of  the  handicraft,   the  sewing,   he  never  under- 


THE    BOOKBINDER    AND    HIS    PUPIL. 


Zl 


took  cheap  work.  Never,  indeed,  without  persuasion 
on  the  part  of  his  employer  and  expostulation  on  his 
own,  did  he  consent  to  half-bind  a  book.  Hence  it 
comes  to  be  confessed,  that,  when  carte  blanche  was 
given  him,  he  would  not  infrequently  expend  upon  a 
book  an  amount  of  labor  and  a  value  of  material 
quite  out  of  proportion  to  the  importance  of  the  book. 
Still,  being  a  thoroughly  conscientious  workman, 
who  never  hurried  the  forwarding,  never  cut  from  a 
margin  a  hair's  breadth  more  than  was  necessary, 
and  hated  finger-marks  on  the  whiteness  of  a  page, 
he  was  well  known  as  such,  and  had  plenty  of  work 
— had  often,  indeed,  to  refuse  what  was  offered  him, 
hence  was  able  to  decline  all  such  jobs  as  would 
give  him  no  pleasure,  and  grew  more  fastidious  as 
he  grew  older  in  regard  to  the  quality  of  the  work  he 
would  undertake.  He  had  never  employed  a  journey- 
man, and  would  never  take  more  than  two  appren- 
tices at  a  time. 

As  Richard  Lestrange  grew,  his  chief  pleasure  was 
to  be  in  the  shop  with  his  uncle,  and  watch  him  at 
his  varying  work.  I  think  his  knowledge  of  books 
as  things  led  him  the  sooner  to  desire  them  as  reali- 
ties, for  to  read  he  learned  with  avidity.  When  he 
was  old  enough  to  go  to  school,  his  adoptive  father 
spared  nothing  he  could  spend  to  make  him  fit  for 
his  future  ;  wisely  resolved,  however,  that  he  should 
know  nothing  of  his  rights  until  he  was  of  an  age  to 
understand  them — except,  indeed.  Sir  Wilton  should 
die  before  that  age  arrived,  when  his  cause  would  be 
too  much  prejudiced  by  farther  postponement  of 
claim.  Heartily  they  hoped  that  their  secret  might 
remain  a  secret  until  their  nephew  should  be  capable 


38  THERE    AND    BACK. 

of  protecting  them  from  any  untoward  consequence 
of  their  well  intended  crime. 

Happily  there  was  in  the  place,  and  near  enough 
for  the  boy  to  attend  it  easily,  a  good  day-school 
upon  an  old  foundation,  whose  fees  were  within  his 
fathers  means.  Richard  proved  a  fair  student  and 
became  a  great  reader.  But  he  took  such  an  in- 
telligent and  practical  interest  in  the  work  he  saw 
going  on  at  home,  that  he  began,  while  yet  a  mere 
child,  to  use  paste  and  paper  of  his  own  accord.  First 
he  made  manuscript-books  for  his  work  at  school, 
and  for  the  copying  of  such  verses  as  he  took  a  fancy 
to  in  his  reading.  Then  inside  the  covers  of  some  of 
these  he  would  make  pockets  for  papers  ;  and  so  ad- 
vanced to  small  portfolios  and  pocket-books,  of  which 
he  would  make  presents  to  his  companions  and 
sometimes,  when  more  ambitiously  successful,  to 
a  master.  In  their  construction  he  used  bits  of 
colored  paper  and  scraps  of  leather,  chiefly  mo- 
rocco, which  his  father  willingly  made  over  to  him, 
watching  his  progress  with  an  interest  quite  paternal, 
and  showing  a  workman's  wisdom  in  this,  that  only 
when  he  saw  him  in  a  real  difficulty  would  he  come 
to  his  aid — as,  for  instance,  when  first  he  struggled 
with  a  piece  of  leather  too  thick  for  the  bonds  of  paste, 
and  must  be  taught  how  to  pare  it  to  the  necessary 
flexibility  and  compliance. 

To  become  able  to  make  something  is,  I  think, 
necessary  to  thorough  development.  I  would  rather 
have  son  of  mine  a  carpenter,  a  watchmaker,  a  wood- 
carver,  a  shoemaker,  a  jeweller,  a  blacksmith,  a 
bookbinder,  than  I  would  have  him  earn  his  bread 
as  a  clerk  in  a  counting-house.  Not  merely  is  the 
cultivation  of  operant  faculty  a  better  education  in 


THE    BOOKBINDER    AND    HIS    PUPIL,  39 

faculty,  but  it  brings  the  man  nearer  to  everything 
operant  ;  humanity  unfolds  itself  to  him  the  readier  ; 
its  ways  and  thoughts  and  modes  of  being  grow  the 
clearer  to  both  intellect  and  heart.  The  poetry  of  life, 
the  inner  side  of  that  nature  which  comes  from  Him 
who,  on  the  Sabbath-days  even,  "worketh  hitherto," 
rises  nearer  the  surface  to  meet  the  eyes  of  the  man, 
who  makes.  What  advantage  the  carpenter  of  Naza- 
reth gathered  from  his  bench,  is  the  inheritance  of 
every  workman,  in  proportion  as  he  does  divine, 
that  is,  honest  work. 

Perceiving  the  faculty  of  the  boy,  his  father — so 
let  us  call  John  Tuke  for  the  present — naturally 
thought  it  well  to  make  him  a  gift  of  his  trade  :  it 
would  always  be  a  possession  !  "Whatever  turn 
things  may  take,"  he  would  remark  to  his  wife,  "  the 
boy  will  have  his  bread  in  his  hands.  And  say  what 
they  will,  the  man  who  can  gather  his  food  off  his 
own  bench,  or  screw  it  out  of  his  own  press,  must  be 
a  freer  man  than  he  who  but  for  his  inheritance  would 
have  to  beg,  steal,  or  die  of  hunger.  And  who  knows 
how  long  the  world  may  permit  idlers  to  fare  of  its 
best !  " 

■  For,  after  a  fashion  of  his  own,  Tuke  was  a  philos- 
opher and  a  politician.  But  his  politics  were  those 
of  the  philosopher,  not  of  the  politician. 

Richard,  with  his  great  love  of  reading,  and  there- 
fore of  books,  was  delighted  to  learn  the  craft  which 
is  their  attendant  and  servitor.  When  too  young  yet 
to  wield  the  hammer  without  danger  both  to  himself 
and  the  book  under  it,  he  began  to  sew,  and  in  a 
few  weeks  was  able  to  bring  the  sheets  together  en- 
tirely to  the  satisfaction  of  his  father.  From  the  first 
he  set  him   to  do  that  essential  part  of  the   work  in 


40  THERE    AND    BACK. 

the  best  way,  that  is,  to  sew  every  sheet  round  every 
cord  :  it  is  only  when  one  can  perfectly  work  after 
the  perfect  rule,  that  he  may  be  trusted  with  variations 
and  exceptions. 

He  went  on  teaching  him  until  the  boy  could,  he 
confessed,  do  almost  everything  better  than  himself — 
went  on  until  he  had  taught  him  every  delicacy, 
every  secret  of  the  craft  Richard  developed  a  posi- 
tive genius  for  the  work,  seeming  almost  to  learn  it 
by  intuition.  A  pocket-book,  with  which  he  presented 
his  father  on  his  fiftieth  birthday,  brought  out  his 
unqualified  praise. 

In  the  process  he  gradually  revealed  a  predilection 
for  a  rarer  use  of  his  faculty — a  use  more  nice,  while 
less  distinguished,  and  not  much  favored  by  his 
father.  It  had  its  prime  source  deeper  than  the  art 
of  bookbinding — in  the  love  of  books  themselves, 
not  as  leaves  to  be  bound,  but  as  utterances  to  be 
heard.  Certain  dealers  in  old  books  have  loved  some 
of  them  so  as  to  refuse  to  part  with  them  on  any 
terms  ;  Richard,  unable  to  possess  more  than  a  very 
few,  manifested  his  veneration  for  them  in  another 
and  nearer  fashion,  running,  as  was  natural  and 
healthy,  in  the  lines  of  his  calling. 

For  many  months  in  diligent  attendance  at  certain 
of  the  evening-classes  at  King's  College,  .he  had 
developed  a  true  insight  into  and  sympathy  with 
what  is  best  in  our  literature — chiefly  in  that  of 
the  sixteenth  century  :  from  this  grew  an  almost 
peculiar  regard  for  old  books.  With  three  or  four 
shillings  weekly  at  his  disposal,  he  laid  himself  out 
to  discover  and  buy  such  volumes  as,  in  themselves 
of  value,  were  in  so  bad  a  condition  as  to  be  of  little 
worth  from  the  mere  bookseller's  point  of  view  :  with 


THE    BOOKBINDER    AND    HIS    PUPIL.  4 1 

these  for  his  first  patients  he  opened  a  hospital,  or 
angel-asylum,  for  the  lodging,  restorative  treatment, 
and  systematic  invigoration  of  decayed  volumes. 
Love  and  power  combined  made  him  look  on  the 
dilapidated,  slow-wasting  abodes  of  human  thought 
and  delight  with  a  healing  compassion — almost  with 
a  passion  of  healing.  The  worse  gnawed  of  the 
tooth  of  insect-time,  the  farther  down  any  choice 
book  in  the  steep  decline  of  years,  the  more  intent 
was  Richard  on  having  it.  More  and  more  skilful 
he  grew,  not  only  in  rebinding  such  whose  clothing 
was  past  repair,  but  in  restoring^e  tone  of  their  very 
constitution  ;  and  in  so  mending  the  ancient  and 
beggarly  garments  of  others  that  they  reassumed  a 
venerable  respectability.  Through  love  he  passed 
from  an  artisan  to  an  artist.  His  reverence  for  the 
inner  reality,  the  book  itself,  in  itself  beyond  time 
and  decay,  had  roused  in  him  a  child-like  regard  for 
its  body,  for  its  broken  inclosure  and  default  of 
manifestation.  He  would  espy  the  beauty  of  an  old 
binding  through  any  amount  of  abrasion  and  lacera- 
tion. To  his  eyes  almost  any  old  binding  was  better 
for  its  book  than  any  new  one. 

His  father  came  to  regard  with  wonder  and  admira- 
tion the  redeeming  faculty  of  his  son,  whereby  he 
would  reinstate  in  strength  and  ripe  dignity  a  volume 
which  he  would  have  taken  to  pieces,  and  re-dressed 
like  an  age-worn  woman  in  a  fashionable  gown.  So 
far  did  his  son's  superior  taste  work  upon  his,  that  at 
length,  if  he  opened  a  new  binding,  however  sombre, 
and  saw  a  time-browned  paper  and  old  type  within, 
the  sight  would  give  him  the  shock  of  a  discord. 

But  Tuke  was  in  many  things  no  other  than  a 
man   of  this  world,  and  sorely  he  doubted  if  such 


4  2  THERE    AND    BACK. 

labor  would  ever  have  its  counterpoise  in  money. 
It  paid  better,  because  it  was  much  easier,  to  reclothe 
than  to  restore !  to  destroy  and  replace  than  to 
renew  !  When  he  had  watched  many  times  for 
minutes  together  his  son's  delicate  manipulation — in 
which  he  patched  without  pauperizing,  and  sub-aided 
without  humiliating — and  at  last  contemplated  the 
finished  result,  he  concluded  him  possessed  of  a  quite 
original  faculty  for  book-healing.  —  "But  alas,"  he 
thought,  "genius  seldom  gets  beyond  board-wages.'' 
It  did  not  occur  to  him  that  genius  least  requires 
more  than  board  wages.  He  encouraged  him,  never- 
theless, though  mildly,  in  the  pursuit  of  this  neglected 
branch  of  the  binding-art. 

As  the  days  went  on,  and  their  love  for  their 
nephew  grew  with  his  deserts,  the  uncle  and  aunt 
shrank  more  and  more  from  the  thought,  which  every 
year  compelled  them  to  think  the  oftener,  that  the 
day  was  drawing  nigh  when  they  must  volunteer  the 
confession  that  he  was  not  their  child. 

Wlien  he  was  about  seventeen,  Richard  settled 
down  to  work  with  his  father,  occasionally  assisting 
him,  but  in  general  occupied  with  his  own  special 
branch,  in  which  Tuke,  through  his  long  connection 
with  book-lovers  possessing  small  cherished  libraries, 
was  able  to  bring  him  almost  as  many  jobs  as  he 
could  undertake.  The  fact  that  a  volume  could  be 
so  repaired,  stimulated  the  purchase  of  shabby  books; 
and  part  of  what  was  saved  on  the  price  of  a  good 
copy  was  laid  out  on  the  amendment  of  the  poor  one. 
But  however  much  the  youth  delighted  in  it,  he  could 
not  but  find  the  work  fidgety  and  tiring  ;  whence 
ensued  the  advantage  that  he  left  it  the  oftener  for  a 
ramble,  or  a  solitary  hour  on  the  river.     He  had  but 


THE    BOOKBINDER    AND    HIS    PUPIL.  43 

few  companions,  his  guardians,  wisely  or  not,  being 
more  fastidious  about  his  associates  than  if  he  had 
been  their  very  son.  His  uncle,  of  strong  socialistic 
opinions,  and  wont  to  dilate  on  human  equality — as 
if  the  thing  that  ought  to  be,  and  must  one  day  come, 
could  be  furthered  by  the  assertion  of  its  present 
existence— was,  like  the  holders  of  even  higher  theo- 
ries, not  a  little  apt  to  forget  the  practice  necessarily 
involved  :  this  son  of  a  baronet,  seeing  that  he  was 
the  son  also  of  his  wife's  sister,  was  not  to  be  brought 
up  like  one  of  the  many  ! 

Ugliness  in  infancy  is  a  promise,  though  perhaps 
a  doubtful  one,  of  beauty  in  manhood  ;  and  in  Rich- 
ard's case  the  promise  was  fulfilled  :  hardly  a  hint 
was  left  of  the  baby-face  which  had  repelled  his 
father.  He  was  now  a  handsome  well-grown  youth, 
with  dark-brown  hair,  dark-green  eyes,  broad  shoul- 
ders, and  a  little  stoop  which  made  his  aunt  uneasy  : 
she  would  have  had  him  join  a  volunteer  corps,  but 
he  declared  he  had  not  the  time.  He  accepted  her 
encouragement,  however,  to  forsake  his  work  as 
often  as  he  felt  inclined.  He  had  good  health  ; 
what  was  better,  a  good  temper ;  and,  what  was 
better  still,  a  willing  heart  toward  his  neighbor.  A 
certain  overhanging  of  his  brows  was — especially 
when  he  contracted  them,  as,  in  perplexity  or  en- 
deavor, he  not  infrequently  did — called  a  scowl  by 
such  as  did  not  love  him  ;  but  it  was  of  shallow  sig- 
nificance, and  probably  the  trick  of  some  ancestor. 

Before  long,  his  thinking  began  to  take  form  in 
verse-making.-  It  matters  little  to  my  narrative 
whether  he  produced  anything  of  original  value  or 
not ;  utterance  aids  growth,  which  is  the  prime  neces- 
sity of  human  as  of  all  other  life.     Not  seldom,  bent 


44  THERE    AND    BACK. 

over  his  work,  he  would  be  evolving  some  musical 
fashion  of  words — with  no  relaxation,  however,  of 
the  sharp  attention  and  delicate  handling  required  by 
the  nature  of  that  work.  It  is  the  privilege  of  some 
kinds  of  labor,  that  they  are  compatible  with  thoughts 
of  higher  things.  At  the  book-keeper's  desk,  the  clerk 
must  think  of  nothing  but  his  work  ;  he  is  chained  to 
it  as  the  galley-slave  to  his  oar ;  the  shoemaker  may 
be  poet  or  mystic,  or  both  ;  the  ploughman  may  turn 
a  good  furrow  and  a  good  verse  together ;  Richard 
could  at  once  use  hands  and  thoughts.  It  troubled 
his  protectors  that  they  could  not  send  him  to  college, 
but  they  comforted  themselves  that  it  would  not  be 
too  late  when  he  returned  to  his  natural  position  in 
society.  They  had  no  plan  in  their  minds,  no  date 
settled  at  which  to  initiate  his  restoration.  All  they 
had  determined  was,  that  he  must  at  least  be  a  grown 
man,  capable  of  looking  after  his  own  affairs,  when 
the  first  step  for  it  was  taken. 

John  Tuke  was  one  of  those  who  acknowledge  in 
some  measure  the  claims  of  their  neighbor,  but  assert 
ignorance  of  any  one  who  must  be  worshipped. 
And  in  truth,  the  God  presented  to  him  by  his  teachers 
was  one  with  little  claim  on  human  devotion.  The 
religious  system  brought  to  bear  on  his  youth  had 
operated  but  feebly  on  his  conscience,  and  not  at  all 
on  his  affections.  It  had,  however,  so  wrought 
upon  his  apprehensions,  that,  when  afterward  per- 
suaded there  was  no  ground  for  agonizing  anticipa- 
tion, he  welcomed  the  conviction  as  in  itself  a  re- 
demption for  all  men;  "for,  surely,"  he  argued, 
"fear  is  the  worst  of  evils  !  "  The  very  approach  of 
such  a  relief  predisposed  him  to  receive  whatever 
teaching  might  follow  from  the  same  source  ;  and 


THE    BOOKBINDER    AND    HIS    PUPIL.  45 

soon  he  believed  himself  satisfied  that  the  notion  of 
religion — of  duty  toward  an  unseen  Maker — was  but 
an  old-wives'-fable  ;  and  that,  as  to  the  hereafter,  a 
mere  cessation  of  consciousness  was  the  only  reason- 
able expectation.  The  testimony  of  his  senses,  al- 
though negative,  he  accepted  as  stronger  on  that  side 
than  any  amount  of  what  could,  he  said,  be  but  the 
purest  assertion  on  the  other.  Why  should  he  heed 
an  old  book.?  why  one  more  than  another?  The 
world  was  around  him  :  some  things  he  must  believe  ; 
other  things  no  man  could  !  One  thing  was  clear  : 
every  man  was  bound  to  give  his  neighbor  fair  play  ! 
He  would  press  nothing  upon  Richard  as  to  God  or 
no  God  !  he  would  not  be  dogmatic  !  he  only  wanted 
to  make  a  man  of  him  !  And  was  he  not  so  far  suc- 
cessful.''  argued  John.  Was  not  Richard  growing  up 
a  diligent,  honest  fellow,  loving  books,  and  leading 
a  good  life ;  whereas,  had  he  been  left  to  his  father, 
he  could  not  have  escaped  being  arrogant  and  unjust, 
despising  the  poor  of  his  own  flesh,  and  caring  only 
to  please  himself!  In  the  midst  of  such  superior 
causes  of  satisfaction,  it  also  pleased  Tuke  to  reflect 
that  the  trade  he  had  taught  his  nephew  was  a  clean 
one,  which,  while  it  rendered  him  superior  to  any 
shrewd  trick  fortune  might  play  him,  would  not 
make  his  hands  unlike  those  of  a  gentleman. 

His  aunt,  however,  kept  wishing  that  Richard  were 
better  "set  up,"  and  looked  more  like  his  grandfather 
the  blacksmith,  whose  trade  she  could  not  help  re- 
garding as  manlier  than  that  of  her  husband.  Hence 
she  had  long  cherished  the  desire  that  he  should 
spend  some  time  with  her  father.  But  John  would 
not  hear  of  it.     He  would  get  working  at  the  forge, 


46  THERE    AND    BACK. 


he  said,   and  ruin  his  hands  for  the    delicate  art  in 
which  he  was  now  unapproachable. 

For  in  certain  less  socialistic  moods,  John  would 
insist  on  regarding  bookbinding,  in  all  and  any  of 
its  branches,  not  as  a  trade,  but  an  art. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE      M  ANSON  S. 

At  school,  Richard  had  been  friendly  with  a  boy 
of  gentle,  nature,  not  many  years  older  than  himself. 
The  boy  had  stood  his  friend  in  more  than  one  dif- 
ficulty, and  Richard  heartily  loved  him.  But  he  had 
suddently  disappeared  from  the  school,  and  so  from 
Richards  ken  :  for  years  he  had  not  seen  him.  One 
evening-,  as  he  vi^as  carrying  home  a  book,  he  met 
this  Arthur  Manson,  looking  worn  and  sad.  He 
would  have  avoided  Richard,  but  he  stopped  him, 
and  presently  the  old  friendship  was  dominant. 
Arthur  told  him  his  story.  He  had  had  to  leave 
school  because  of  the  sudden  cessation,  from  what 
cause  he  did  not  know,  of  a  certain  annuity  his 
mother  had  till  then  enjoyed — rendering  it  impera- 
tive that  he  should  earn  his  own  living,  and  contri- 
bute to  her  support,  for  although  she  still  had  a  little 
money,  it  was  not  nearly  enough.  His  sister  was 
at  work  with  a  dressmaker,  but  as  yet  earning  next 
to  nothing.  His  mother  was  a  lady,  he  said,  and 
had  never  done  any  work.  He  was  himself  in  a 
counting-house  in  the  city,  with  a  salary  of  forty 
pounds.  He  told  him  where  they  lived,  and  Richard 
promised  to  go  and  see  him,  which  he  did  the  next 
Sunday. 

His  friend's  mother  lived  in  a  little  house  of  two 


48  THERE    AND    BACK. 

floors,  one  of  a  long  row  lately  built.  The  furniture 
was  much  too  large,  and  it  was  ditficult  to  move  in 
the  tiny  drawing-room.  It  showed  a  feeble  attempt 
at  decoration,  which  made  it  look  the  poorer.  Ac- 
customed to  his  mother's  care  of  her  things,  Richard 
perceived  a  difference  :  these  were  much  finer  but 
neglected,  and  looked  as  if  they  felt  it.  At  their 
evening  meal,  however,  the  tea  was  good,  and  the 
bread  and  butter  were  of  the  best. 

The  mother  was  a  handsome  middle-aged  woman 
— not  so  old,  Richard  somehow  imagined,  as  she 
looked.  She  was  stout  and  florid,  with  plenty  of 
black,  rather  coarse  hair,  and  seemed  to  Richard  to 
have  the  carriage  of  a  lady,  but  not  speech  equal  to 
her  manners.  She  was  polite  to  him,  but  not  ap- 
parently interested  in  her  son's  friend.  Yet  several 
times  he  found  her  gazing  at  him  with  an  expression 
that  puzzled  him.  He  had,  however,  too  clear  a 
conscience  to  be  troubled  by  any  scrutiny. 

All  the  evening  Arthur's  face  wore  the  same  look 
of  depression,  and  Richard  wondered  what  could  be 
amiss.  He  learned  afterward  that  the  mother  was  so 
self-indulgent,  and  took  so  little  care  to  make  the 
money  go  as  far  as  it  could,  that  he  had  not  merely 
to  toil  from  morning  to  night  at  uncongenial  labor, 
but  could  never  have  the  least  recreation,  and  was 
always  too  tired  when  he  came  home  to  understand 
any  book  he  attempted  to  read.  Richard  learned 
also  that  he  had  no  greatcoat,  and  went  to  the  city  in 
the  winter  with  only  a  shabby  comforter  in  addition 
to  the  clothes  he  had  worn  all  the  summer.  But  it 
was  not  Arthur  who  told  him  this. 

The  girl  was  a  graceful  little  creature,  with  the 
same  sad  look  her  brother  had,   but  not  the  same 


THE    HANSONS.  49 

depression.  She  seemed  more  delicate  and  less 
capable  of  labor  ;  yet  her  hours  were  longer  than 
his,  and  her  confinement  greater.  Alice  had  to  sit 
the  whole  day  plying  her  needle,  while  Arthur  was 
occasionally  sent  out  to  collect  money.  But  her 
mistress  was  a  kind-hearted  woman,  and  not  having 
a  fashionable  clieneek,  had  not  yet  become  indifferent 
to  the  well-being  of  her  workwomen.  She  even  paid 
a  crippled  girl  a  trifle  for  reading  to  them,  stipulat- 
ing only  that  she  should  read  fast,  for  she  found  the 
rate  of  their  working  greatly  influenced  by  the  rate 
of  the  reading.  Life,  if  harder,  was  therefore  not 
quite  so  uninteresting  to  Alice  as  to  Arthur,  and  that 
might  be  why  she  seemed  to  have  more  vitality. 
Like  her  mother  she  had  a  quantity  of  hair,  as  dark 
as  hers,  but  finer  ;  dark  eyes,  not  without  meaning  ; 
irregular  but  very  pleasing  and  delicate  features  ;  and 
an  unusually  white  rather  than  pale  complexion,  with 
a  sort  of  a  sallow  glow  under  the  diaphanous  skin. 
There  was  not  a  little  piquancy  in  the  expression  of 
her  countenance,  and  Richard  felt  it  strangely  attrac- 
tive. 

The  youths  found  they  had  still  tastes  in  common, 
although  Arthur  had  neither  time  nor  strength  to  fol- 
low them.  Richard  spoke  of  some  book  he  had  been 
reading.  Arthur  was  interested,  but  Alice  so  much 
that  Richard  offered  to  lend  it  to  her  :  it  was  the  first 
time  she  had  heard  a  book  spoken  of  in  such  a  tone 
— one  of  suppressed  feeling,  almost  veneration. 

The  mother  did  not  join  in  their  talk,  and  left  them 
soon — her  daughter  said  to  go  to  church. 

"She  always  goes  by  herself,"  Alice  added.  "She 
sees  we  are  too  tired  to  go. " 

They  sat  a  long  time  with  no  light  but  that  of  the 

A. 


50  THERE    AND    BACK. 


fire.  Arthur  seemed  to  g-ather  courage,  and  con- 
fessed the  hopeless  monotony  of  his  life.  He  com- 
plained of  no  privation,  only  of  want  of  interest  in 
his  work. 

"  Dojyou  like  your  work.'  '"  he  asked  Richard. 

"Indeed  I  do!"  Richard  answered.  "  I  would 
sooner  handle  an  old  book  than  a  bunch  of  bank- 
notes !  " 

"I  don't  doubt  it,"  returned  Arthur.  "To  me 
your  workshop  seems  a  paradise." 

"Why  don't  you  take  up  the  trade,  then.?  Come 
to  us  and  I  will  teach  you.  I  do  not  think  my  father 
would  object." 

"  I  learn  nothing-  where  I  am  !  "  continued  Arthur. 

"Our  boat  is  not  over-manned,"  resumed  Rich- 
ard. "  Say  you  will  come,  and  I  will  speak  to  my 
father." 

"I  wish  I  could!  But  how  are  we  to  live  while 
lam  learning-.? — No;  I  must  grind  away  till " 

He  stopped  short,  and  gave  a  sigh. 

"Till  when,  Arty.?"  asked  his  sister. 

"Till  death  set  me  free,"  he  answered. 

"You  wouldn't  leave  me  behind,  Arty!"  said 
Alice ;  and  rising,  she  put  her  arm  round  his  neck. 

"  I  wouldn't  if  I  could  help  it,"  he  replied. 

"It's  a  cowardly  thing  to  want  to  die,"  said 
Richard. 

"I  think  so  sometimes." 

"  There's  your  mother  !  " 

"Yes,"  responded  Arthur,  but  without  emotion. 

"And  how  should  I  get  on  without  you,  Arty .? " 
said  his  sister. 

"Not  very  well.  Ally.  But  it  wouldn't  be  for 
long.     We  should  soon  meet." 


THE    MANSONS.  51 


"Who  told  you  that  ?  "  said  Richard,  almost  rudely. 

"  Don't  you  think  we  shall  know  each  other  after- 
wards? "  asked  Arthur,  with  an  expression  of  weary 
rather  than  sad  surprise. 

"I  would  be  a  little  surer  of  it  before  I  talked  so 
coolly  of  leaving  a  sister  Hke  that  !  I  only  wish  / 
had  one  to  care  for  !  " 

A  faint  flush  rose  on  the  pale  face  of  the  girl,  and 
as  swiftly  faded. 

"Do  you  think,  then,  that  this  life  is  only  a 
dream  ?  "  she  said,  looking  up  at  Richard  with  some- 
thing in  her  great  eyes  that  he  did  not  understand. 

"Anyhow,"  he  answered,  "I  would  bear  a  good 
deal  rather  than  run  the  risk  of  going  so  fast  asleep 
as  to  stop  dreaming  it.  A  man  can  die  any  time," 
he  continued,  "but  he  can't  dream  when  he  pleases  ! 
I  would  wait !  One  can't  tell  when  things  may  take 
a  turn  !     There  are  many  chances  on  the  cards  !  " 

"That's  true,"  replied  Arthur;  but  plainly  the  very 
chances  were  a  weariness  to  him. 

"  If  Arthur  had  enough  to  eat,  and  time  to  read, 
and  a  little  amusement,  he  would  be  as  brave  as  you 
are,  Mr.  Tuke  !  "  said  Alice.  " — But  you  can't  mean 
to  say  there  will  be  no  more  of  anything  for  us  after 
this  world  !  To  think  I  should  never  see  Arty  again, 
would  make  me  die  before  my  time  !  I  should  be 
so  miserable  I  would  hardly  care  to  keep  him  as  long 
as  I  might.  We  must  die  som.e  day,  and  what  odds 
whether  it  be  a  few  days  sooner,  or  a  few  days  later, 
if  we're  never  going  to  meet  again  .?  " 

"The  best  way  is  not  to  think  about  it,"  returned 
Richard.  "  Why  should  you  .?  Look  at  the  butter- 
flics  !  They  take  what  comes,  and  don't  grumble  at 
their  sunshine  because  there's  only  one  day  of  it." 


THERE    AND    BACK. 


"But  when  there's  no  sunshine  that  day?"  sug- 
gested AUce. 

"Well,  when  they  lie  crumpled  in  the  rain,  they're 
none  the  worse  that  they  didn't  think  about  it  before- 
hand!    We  must  make  the  best  of  what  we  have  !  " 

"It's  not  worth  making  the  best  of,"  cried  Alice, 
indignantly,  ' '  if  that's  all !  " 

My  reader  may  well  wonder  at  Richard  :  how  could 
he  be  a  lover  of-  our  best  literature  and  talk  as  he 
did?  or  rather,  talking  as  he  did,  how  could  he 
love  it?  But  he  had  come  to  love  it  while  yet  under 
the  influence  of  what  his  aunt  taught  him,  poor  as 
w^as  her  teaching.  Then  his  heart  and  imagination 
were  more  in  the  ascendency.  Now  he  had  begun 
to  admire  the  intellectual  quahties  of  that  literature 
more,  and  its  imaginative  less  ;  for  he  had  begun  to 
think  truth  attainable  through  the  forces  of  the  brain, 
sole  and  supreme. 

In  matters  of  conduct,  John  Tuke  and  his  wife 
were  well  agreed;  in  matters  of  opinion,  they  dif- 
fered greatly.  Jane  went  to  church  regularly,  lis- 
tened without  interest,  and  accepted  without  question; 
had  her  husband  gone,  he  would  have  listened  with 
the  interest  of  utter  dissent.  When  Jane  learned  that 
her  husband  no  longer  "  believed  in  the  Bible,"  she 
was  seized  with  terror  lest  he  should  die  without 
repentance  and  be  lost.  Thereupon  followed  fear 
for  herself  :  was  not  an  atheist  a  horribly  wicked 
man  .?— and  she  could  not  feel  that  John  was  horribly 
wicked  !  She  tried  her  hardest,  but  could  not ;  and 
concluded  therefore  that  his  unbelief  must  be  affect- 
ing her.  She  prayed  him  to  say  nothing  against  the 
Bible  to  Richard— at  least  before  he  arrived  at  years  of 


THE    MANSONS.  53 


discretion.  This  John  promised  ;  but  subtle  efflu- 
ences are  subtle  influences. 

John  Tuke  did  right  so  far  as  he  knew — at  least  he 
thought  he  did — and  refused  to  believe  in  any  kind 
of  God ;  Jane  did  right,  she  thought,  as  far  as  she 
knew — and  never  imagined  God  cared  about  her: 
let  him  who  has  a  mind  to  it,  show  the  value  of  the 
difference  ! 

Tuke  was  a  thinking  man  ; — that  is,  set  a  going  in 
any  direction  that  interested  him,  he  could  take  a  few 
steps  forward  without  assistance.  But  he  could  start 
in  no  direction  of  himself.  At  a  small  club  to  which 
he  belonged,  he  had  been  brought  in  contact  with 
certain  ideas  new  to  him,  and  finding  himself  able  to 
grasp  them,  felt  at  once  as  if  they  must  be  true. 
Certain  other  ideas,  new  to  him,  coming  self-sug- 
gested in  their  train,  he  began  immediately  to  imag- 
ine himself  a  thinker,  able  to  generate  notions  to 
which  the  people  around  him  were  unequal.  He 
began  to  grow  self-confident,  and  so  to  despise. 
Taking  courage  then  to  deny  things  he  had  never 
believed,  had  only  not  thought  about,  and  finding 
he  thereby  gave  offence,  he  chose  to  imagine 
himself  a  martyr  for  the  truth.  He  did  not  see  that 
a  denial  involving  no  assertion,  cannot  witness  to 
any  truth  ;  nor  did  he  perceive  that  denial  in  his  case 
meant  nothing  more  than  non-acceptance  of  things 
asserted.  Had  he  put  his  position  logically,  it  would 
have  been  this  :  I  never  knew  such  things  ;  I  do  not 
like  the  notion  of  them  ;  therefore  I  deny  them  :  they 
do  not  exist.  But  no  man  really  denies  a  thing 
which  he  knows  only  by  the  words  that  stand  for 
it.  When  John  Tuke  denied  the  God  in  his  notion, 
he  denied  only  a  God  that  could  have  no  existence. 


54  THERE    AND    BACK. 


A  man  will  be  judged,  however,  by  his  truth  to- 
ward what  he  professes  to  beheve  ;  and  John  was 
far  truer  to  his  perception  of  the  duty  of  man.  to  man 
than  are  ninety-nine  out  of  the  hundred  of  so-called 
Christians  to  the  things  they  profess  to  believe.  How 
many  men  would  be  immeasurably  better,  if  they 
.would  but  truly  believe,  that  is,  act  upon,  the  smalles.t 
,part  of  what  they  untruly  profess  to  believe,  even  if 
they  cast  aside  all  the  rest.  John  cast  aside  an  allegi- 
ance to  God  which  had  never  been  more  than  a  mock- 
ery, and  set  about  delivering  his  race  from  the  fear  of 
a  person  who  did  not  exist.  For,  true  enough,  there 
was  no  God  of  the  kind  John  denied  ;  only,  what  if, 
in  delivering  his  kind  from  the  tyranny  of  a  false 
God,  he  aided  in  hiding  from  them  the  love  of  a  true 
God — of  a  God  that  did  and  ought  to  exist  ?  There 
are  other  passions  besides  fear,  and  precious  as  fear 
is  hateful.  If  there  be  a  God  and  one  has  never 
sought  him,  it  will  be  small  consolation  to  remember 
that  he  could  not  get  proof  of  his  existence.  Is  a 
child  not  to  seek  his  father,  because  he  cannot  prove 
he  is  alive  ? 

The  aunt  continued  to  take  the  boy  to  church,  and 
expose  him, for  it  was  little  more  she  did,  to  a  teach- 
ing she  could  not  herself  either  supply  or  supplement. 
It  was  the  business  of  the  church  to  teach  Christi- 
anity !  her  part  was  to  accept  it,  and  bring  the  child 
where  he  also  might  listen  and  accept !  But  what 
she  accepted  as  Christianity,  is  another  question  ; 
and  whether  the  acceptance  of  anything  makes  a 
Christian,  is  another  still. 

How  much  of  Christianity  a  child  may  or  may  not 
learn  by  going  to  church,  it  is  impossible  to  say; 
but  certainly  Richard    did  not   learn   anything  that 


THE    MANSONS.  55 

drew  his  heart  to  Jesus  of  Nazareth,  or  caught  him 
in  any  heavenly  breeze,  or  even  the  smallest  of  celes- 
tial whirlwinds  !  He  learned  nothing-  even  that  made 
unwelcome  such  remarks  as  his  father  would  now 
and  then  let  fall  concerning  the  clergy  and  the  way 
they  followed  their  trade  ;  while  the  grin,  full  of  con- 
scious superiority,  with  which  he  unconsciously  ac- 
companied them,  found  its  reflection  in  the  honorable 
but  not  yet  humble  mind,  beginning  to  be  aware  of  its 
own  faculty,  and  not  aware  that  the  religion  presented 
in  his  aunt's  church,  a  religion  neither  honorable  nor 
elevating,  was  but  the  dullest  travesty  of  the  religion 
of  St.  Paul.  Richard  had,  besides,  read  several  books 
which,  had  his  uncle  been  careful  of  the  promise  he 
had  given  his  wife,  he  would  have  intentionally 
removed  instead  of  unintentionally  leaving  about. 

In  the  position  Richard  had  just  taken  toward  his 
new  friends,  he  was  not  a  little  influenced  by  the 
desire  to  show  himself  untrammelled  by  prevailing 
notions,  and  capable  of  thinking  for  himself;  but  this 
was  far  from  all  that  made  him  speak  as  he  did. 
Many  young  fellows  are  as  ready  to  deny  as  Richard, 
but  not  many  feel  as  strongly  that  life  rests  upon 
what  we  know,  that  knowledge  must  pass  into  action. 
The  denial  of  every  falsehood  under  the  sun  would 
not  generate  one  throb  of  life. 

Richard  told  his  adoptive  parents  where  he  had 
been,  and  asked  if  he  might  invite  his  new  friends 
for  the  next  Sunday.  They  made  no  objection,  and 
when  Arthur  and  Alice  came,  received  them  kindly. 
Richard  took  Arthur  to  the  shop,  and  showed  him 
the  job  he  was  engaged  upon  at  the  time,  lauding  his 
department  as  affording  more  satisfaction  than  mere 
binding. 


56  THERE    AND    BACK. 

"For,"  he  said,  "the  thing  that  is  not,  may  con- 
tinue not  to  be  ;  but  the  thing  that  is,  should  be  as  it 
was  meant  to  be.  Where  it  is  not  such,  there  is  an 
evil  that  wants  remedy.  It  may  be  that  the  sole 
remedy  is  binding,  but  that  involves  destruction, 
therefore  it  is  a  poor  thing  beside  renovation." 

The  argument  came  from  a  well  of  human  pity  in 
himself,  deeper  than  Richard  knew.  But  both  the 
pity  he  felt  and  the  truth  in  what  he  said  came  from  a 
source  eternal  of  which  he  yet  knew  nothing. 

"It  would  be  much  easier,"  continued  Richard, 
"to  make  that  volume  look  new,  but  how  much 
more  delightful  to  send  it  out  with  a  revived  assertion 
of  its  ancient  self  !  " 

Some  natures  have  a  better  chance  of  disclosing  the 
original  in  them,  that  they  have  not  been  to  college, 
and  set  to  think  in  other  people's  grooves,  instead  of 
those  grooves  that  were  scored  in  themselves  long 
before  the  glacial  era. 

"For  my  part,"  said  Arthur,  "I  feel  like  a  book 
that  needs  to  be  fresh  printed,  not  to  say  fresh  bound  ! 
I  don't  feel  why  1  am  what  I  am.  I  would  part  with 
it  all,  except  just  being  the  same  man  !  " 

While  the  youths  were  having  their  talk,  Alice  was 
in  Jane's  bedroom,  undergoing  an  examination,  the 
end  and  object  of  which  it  was  impossible  she  should 
suspect.  Caught  by  a  certain  look  in  her  sweet  face, 
reminding  her  of  a  look  that  was  anything  but  sweet, 
Jane  had  set  herself  to  learn  from  her  what  she  might 
as  to  her  people  and  history. 

"Is  your  father  alive,  my  dear.?"  she  asked,  with 
her  keen  black  eyes  on  Alice's  face. 

That  grew  red,  and  for  a  moment  the  girl  did  not 
answer.     Jane  pursued  her  catechising. 


THE    MANSONS.  57 


"What  was  his  trade  or  profession?"  she  in- 
quired. 

The  girl  said  nothing,  and  the  merciless  questioner 
went  on. 

"Tell  me  something  about  him,  dear.  Do  you 
remember  him?  Or  did  he  die  when  you  were  quite 
a  child?  " 

"I  do  not  remember  him,''  answered  Alice.  "  I 
do  not  know  if  I  ever  saw  him." 

"Did  your  mother  never  tell  you  what  he  was 
like  ? " 

"  She  told  me  once  he  was  very  handsome— the 
handsomest  man  she  ever  saw — but  cruel — so  cruel  ! 
she  said. — I  don't  want  to  talk  about  him,  please, 
ma'am  !  "  concluded  Alice,  the  tears  running  down 
her  cheeks. 

"I'm  sorry,  my  dear,  to  hurt  you,  but  I'm  not  do- 
ing it  from  curiosity.  You  have  a  look  so  like  a  man 
I  once  knew, — and  your  brother  had  something  of 
the  same  ! — that  in  fact  I  am  bound  to  learn  what  I 
can  about  you." 

"  What  sort  was  the  man  we  put  you  in  mind  of?  " 
asked  Alice,  With  a  feeble  attempt  at  a  smile.  "  — Not 
a  very  bad  man,  I  hope  !  " 

"Well,  not  very  good — as  you  ask  me. — He  was 
what  people  call  a  gentleman  !  " 

"Was  that  all?" 

"What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"I  thought  he  was  a  nobleman  !  " 

"Oh  ! — well,  he  wasn't  that  ;  he  was  a  baronet." 

Alice  gave  a  little  cry. 

"Do  tell  me  something  about  him,"  she  said. 
"What  do  you  know  about  him?  " 


58  THERE    AND    BACK. 


"]\Iore  than  I  choose  to  tell.  We  will  forget  him 
now,  if  you  please  !  " 

There  was  in  her  voice  a  tone  of  displeasure,  which 
Alice  took  to  be  with  herself.  She  was  in  conse- 
quence both  troubled  and  perplexed.  Neither  made 
any  more  inquiries.  Jane  took  her  guest  back  to  the 
sitting-room. 

The  moment  her  brother  came  from  the  workshop, 
Alice  said  to  him — 

"Are  you  ready,  Arthur.?  We  had  better  be  mov- 
ing !  " 

Arthur  was  a  gentle  creature,  and  seldom  opposed 
her  ;  he  seemed  only  surprised  a  little,  and  asked  if 
she  was  ill.  But  Richard,  who  had  all  the  week  been 
looking  forward  to  a  talk  with  Alice,  and  wanted  to 
show  her  his  little  library,  was  much  disappointed, 
and  begged  her  to  change  her  mind.  She  insisted, 
however,  and  he  put  on  his  hat  to  walk  with  them. 
But  his  aunt  called  him,  and  whispered  that  she  would 
be  particularly  obliged  to  him  if  he  would  go  to 
church  with  her  that  evening.  He  expostulated, 
saying  he  did  not  care  to  go  to  church  ;  but  as  she 
insisted,  he  yielded,  though  not  with  the  best  grace. 

Before  another  Sunday,  there  came,  doubtless  by 
his  aunt's  management,  an  invitation  to  spend  a  few 
weeks  with  his  grandfather,  the  blacksmith. 

Richard  was  not  altogether  pleased,  for  he  did  not 
like  leaving  his  work  ;  but  his  aunt  again  prevailed 
with  him,  and  he  agreed  to  go.  In  this,  as  in  most 
things,  he  showed  her  a  deference  such  as  few  young 
men  show  their  mothers.  Her  influence  came,  I 
presume,  through  the  strong  impression  of  purpose 
she  had  made  on  him. 

His  uncle   objected   to  his  going,  and  grumbled  a 


THE    HANSONS. 


59 


good  deal.     As  the  brewer  looks  down  on  the  baker, 
so  the  bookbinder  looked  down  on  the  blacksmith. 

He  said  the  people  Richard  would  see  about  his 
grandfather  were  not  fit  company  for  the  heir  of 
Mortgrange  !  But  he  knew  the  necessity  of  his  going 
somewhere  for  a  while,  and  gave  iu. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


SIMON  ARMOUR. 


Simon  Armour  was  past  only  the  agility,  not  the 
strength  of  his  youth,  and  in  his  feats  of  might  and 
skill  he  cherished  pride.  Without  being  offensively 
conceited,  he  regarded  himself — and  well  might — as 
the  superior  of  any  baronet  such  as  his  daughter's 
husband,  and  desired  of  him  no  recognition  of  the 
relationship.  All  he  looked  for  from  any  man, 
whether  he  stood  above  or  beneath  his  own  plane, 
was  proper  pay  for  good  work,  and  natural  human 
respect.  Some  of  the  surrounding  gentry,  possibly 
not  uninfluenced,  in  sentiment  at  least,  by  the  grow- 
ing radicalism  of  the  age,  enjoyed  the  free,  jolly,  but 
unpresuming  carriage  of  the  stalwart  old  man,  to 
whom,  if  indeed  on  his  head  the  almond-tree  was 
already  in  blossom,  the  grasshopper  was  certainly 
not  yet  a  burden  :  he  could  still  ply  a  sledge-hammer 
in  each  hand.  "  My  lord,"  came  from  his  lips  in  a 
clear,  ringing  tone  of  good-fellowship,  which  the 
nobleman  who  occasionally  stopped  at  his  forge  to 
give  him  some  direction  about  the  shoeing  of  this  or 
that  horse,  liked  well  to  hear,  and  felt  the  friendlier 
for — though  I  doubt  if  he  would  have  welcomed  it 
from  a  younger  man. 

Besides  his  daughter  Jane  and  her  husband,  he 
alone  was  aware  of  the  real  parentage  of  the  lad  who 
passed  as  their  son  ;  and  he  knew  that,  if  he  lived 
long  enough,  an  hour  would  call  him  to  stand  up  for 


SIMON    ARMOUR.  6 1 

the  rights  of  his  grandson.  Perhaps  it  was  partly  in 
view  of  this  that  he  had  for  years  been  an  abstainer 
from  strong  drink ;  but  1  am  inclined  to  attribute  the 
fact  chiefly  to  his  having  found  the  love  of  it  gaining 
upon  him.  "  Damn  the  drink  !  "  he  had  been  more 
than  once  overheard  to  say,  "it  shall  know  which  of 
us  is  master  !  "  And  when  Simon  had  made  up  his 
mind  to  a  thing,  the  thing  was — not  indeed  as  good, 
but  almost  as  sure  as  done.  The  smallest  of  small 
beer  was  now  his  strongest  drink. 

He  was  a  hard-featured,  good-looking,  white- 
haired  man  of  sixty,  with  piercing  eyes  of  quite 
cerulean  blue,  and  a  rough  voice  with  an  undertone 
of  music  in  it.  There  was  music,  indeed,  all  through 
him.  In  the  roughest  part  of  his  history  it  was  his 
habit  to  go  to  church — mainly,  I  may  say  entirely, 
for  the  organ,  but  his  behavior  was  never  other 
than  reverent.  How  much  he  understood,  may  be 
left  a  question  somewhat  dependent  on  how  much 
there  may  have  been  to  understand  ;  but  he  had  a 
few  ideas  in  religion  which  were  very  much  his  own, 
and  which,  especially  some  with  regard  to  certain  of 
the  lessons  from  the  Old  Testament,  would  have 
considerably  astonished  some  parsons,  and  consid- 
erably pleased  others.  He  was  a  big,  broad- 
shouldered  man,  with  the  brawniest  arms,  and  eyes 
so  bright  and  scintillant  that  one  might  fancy  they 
caught  and  kept  for  their  own  use  the  sparks  that 
flew  from  his  hammer.  His  face  was  red,  with  a 
great  but  short  white  beard,  suggesting  the  sun  in  a 
clean  morning-fog. 

A  rickety  omnibus  carried  Richard  from  the  rail- 
way-station some  five  miles  to  the  smithy.  When 
the  old  man  heard  it  stop,  he  threw  down  his  ham- 


62  THERE    AND    BACK. 


mer,  strode  hastily  to  the  door,  met  his  grandson  with 
a  gripe  that  left  a  black  mark  and  an  ache,  and 
catching  up  his  portmanteau,  set  it  down  inside. 

"  111  go  with  you  in  a  moment,  lad  !  "  he  said,  and 
seizing  with  a  long  pair  of  pincers  the  horse-shoe  that 
lay  in  process  on  the  anvil,  he  thrust  it  into  the  fire, 
blew  a  great  roaring  blast  from  the  bellows,  plucked 
out  the  shoe  glowing  white,  and  fell  upon  it  as  if  it 
were  a  devil.  Having  thus  cowed  it  a  bit,  he  grew 
calm,  and  more  deliberately  shaped  it  to  an  invis- 
ible idea.  His  grandson  was  delighted  vi'ith  the 
mingling  of  determination,  intent  and  power,  with 
certainty  of  result,  manifest  in  every  blow.  In  two 
minutes  he  had  the  shoe  on  the  end  of  a  long  hooked 
rod,  and  was  hanging  it  beside  others  on  a  row  of 
nails  in  a  beam.     Then  he  turned  and  said — 

"There,  lad!  that's  off  the  anvil — and  off  my 
mind  !     Now  I'm  for  you  !  " 

"  Grandfather,"  said  Richard,  "  I  shouldn't  like  to 
have  you  for  an  enemy  !  " 

"Why  not,  you  rascal  !  Do  you  think  I  would 
take  unfair  advantage  of  you  .'*  " 

"No,  that  I  don't  !  But  you've  got  awful  arms 
and  hands  !  " 

"They've  done  a  job  or  two  in  their  day,  lad  !  " 
he  answered  ;  "but I'm  getting  old  now  !  I  can"t  do 
what  I  thought  nothing  of  once.  Well,  no  man  was 
made  to  last  forever — no  more  than  a  horse-shoe  ! 
There'd  be  no  work  for  the  Maker  if  he  did  !  " 

"  I'm  glad  to  see  we're  of  one  mind,  grandfather  !  " 
said  Richard. 

"Well,  why  shouldn't  we — if  so  be  we're  in  the 
right  mind  ! — Yes  ;  we  must  be  o'  one  mind  if  we're 
o'  the  right  mind  !     The  year  or  two  I  may  be  ahead 


SIMON    ARMOUR.  63 

o'  you  in  gettin'  at  it,  g-oes  for  nothing-  :  I  started 
sooner  ! — But  what  may  be  the  mind  you  speak  of, 
sonny?  " 

The  look  of  keen  question  the  old  man  threw  on 
him,  woke  a  doubt  in  Richard  whether  he  might  not 
have  misunderstood  his  grandfather. 

"I  think,"  he  answered,  "if  a  man  was  made  to 
last  forever,  the  world  would  get  tired  of  him. 
When  a  horse  or  a  dog  has  done  his  work,  he's  con- 
tent— and  so  is  his  master." 

"Nay,  but  I  bean't !  I  bean't  content  to  lose  the 
old  horse  as  I've  shod  mayhap  for  twenty  years — 
no,  not  if  I  bean't  his  master  !  " 

"There's  no  help  for  it,  though  !  " 

"  None  as  I  knows  on,  I'd  be  main  glad  to  hear 
any  news  on  the  subjec'  as  you  can  supply  ? — No,  I 
ain't  content  ;  I'm  sorry  !  " 

"Why  don't  the  parsons  say  the  old  horse  '11  rise 
again  ? " 

"'Cause  the  parsons  know  nought  about  it.  How 
should  they  ?  " 

"They  say  we're  going  to  rise  again." 

"  Why  shouldn't  they  ?  I  guess  I'll  be  up  as  soon 
as  I  may  !  I  don't  vv^ant  no  night  to  lie  longer  than 
rest  my  bones  !  " 

"I  mistook  what  you  meant,  grandfather.  I 
thought,  when  you  said  you  weren't  made  to  last 
forever,  that  you  meant  there  was  an  end  of  you  !  " 

"Well,  so  you  might,  and  small  blame  to  you! 
It's  a  wrong  way  of  speaking  we  all  have.  But 
you've  set  me  thinking — whether  by  mistake  or  not, 
Where's  the  matter  !  I  never  thought  what  come  o' 
the  old  horse,  a'ter  all  his  four  shoes  takes  to  shinin' 
at   oncet !     For   the   old   smith   when  he  drops  his 


64  THERE    AND    BACK. 


hammer — I  have  thought  about  him.  Lord  ! — to 
think  o'  that  anvil  never  ringin'  no  more  to  this  here 
fist  o'  mine  !  " 

While  they  talked,  the  blacksmith  had  put  off  his 
thick  apron  of  hide  ;  and  now,  catching  up  Richard's 
portmanteau  as  if  it  had  been  a  hand-basket,  he  led 
the  way  to  a  cottage  not  far  from  the  forge,  in  a  lane 
that  here  turned  out  of  the  high  road.  It  was  a 
humble  place  enough — one  story  and  a  wide  attic. 
The  front  was  almost  covered  with  jasmine,  rising 
from  a  little  garden  filled  with  cottage  flowers.  Be- 
hind was  a  larger  garden,  full  of  cabbages  and  goose- 
berry-bushes. 

A  girl  came  to  the  door,  with  a  kind,  blushing 
face,  and  hands  as  red  as  her  cheeks — a  great-niece 
of  the  old  smith.  Repassed  her  and  led  the  way 
into  a  room  half  kitchen,  half  parlor. 

"Here  you  are,  lad — at  home,  I  hope  !  Sech  as 
it  is,  an'  as  much  as  it's  mine,  it's  yours,  an'  I  hope 
you'll  make  it  so." 

He  deposited  the  portmanteau,  glanced  quickly 
round,  saw  that  Jessie  had  not  followed  them,  and 
said — 

"You'll  keep  your  good  news  till  I've  turned  it 
over !  " 

"  What  good  news,  grandfather  }  " 

"The  good  news  that  them  as  is  close  pared  has 
110  call  to  look  out  for  the  hoof  to  grow.  I'm  not 
saying  you're  wrong,  lad — woi  yet ;  but  everybody 
mightn't  think  your  news  so  good  as  to  be  worth 
a  special  messenger  !  So  till  you're  quite  sure  of 
it " 

"I  am  quite  sure  of  it,  grandfather  !  " 

"  I'm  not;  and  having  charge  of  the  girl  there,  I'll 


SIMON    ARMOUR.  65 


ha'  no  dish  served  i'  my  house  as  I  don't  think  whole- 
some !  " 

"You're  right  there,  grandfather  !  You  may  trust 
me  !  "  answered  Richard,  respectfully. 

The  blacksmith  had  spoken  with  a  decision  that 
was  imperative.  His  red  face  shone  out  of  his  white 
beard,  and  his  eyes  sparkled  out  of  his  red  face  ;  his 
head  gave  a  nod,  and  his  jaws  a  snap. 

They  had  tea,  with  bread  and  butter  and  marma- 
lade, and  much  talk  about  John  and  Jane  Tuke,  in 
which  the  old  man  said  oftener,  "your  aunt"  and 
"your  uncle,"  than  "your  father"  or  "your 
mother  ;  "  but  Richard  put  it  down  to  the  confusion 
that  often  accompanies  age.  When  the  bookbinding 
came  up,  Richard  was  surprised  to  discover  that  the 
blacksmith  was  far  from  looking  upon  their  trade  as 
superior  to  his  own.  It  was  plain  indeed  that  he 
regarded  bookbinding  as  a  quite  inferior  and  scarce 
manly  employment.  To  the  blacksmith,  bookbind- 
ing and  tailoring  were  much  the  same — fit  only  for 
women.  Richard  did  not  relish  this.  He  endeav- 
ored to  make  his  grandfather  see  the  dignity  of  the 
work,  insisting  that  its  difficulty  was  the  greater  be- 
cause of  the  less  strength  required  in  it :  the  strength 
itself  had,  he  said,  in  certain  of  its  operations,  to  be 
pared  to  the  requisite  fineness,  to  be  modified  with 
extreme  accuracy  ;  while  in  others,  all  the  strength  a 
man  had  was  necessary,  and  especially  in  a  shop 
like  theirs,  where  everything  was  done  by  hand.  But 
the  fine  work,  he  said,  tired  one  much  the  most. 

"Fine  work!"  echoed  the  smith  with  contempt. 

"There  came  a  gentleman  here   to  be  shod  t'other 

day  from  the  Hall,  who  was  a  great  traveller  ;  and 

he  told  me  he  seen   in  Japan   a  blacksmith   with  a 

5 


66  THERE    AND    BACK. 


sprig  of  may  on  the  anvil  before  him,  an'  him 
a-copyin'  to  the  life  them  blossoms  in  hard  iron  with 
his  one  hammer  !     What  say  you  to  that,  lad?  " 

"  Wonderful !  But  that  same  man  couldn't  do  the 
heavy  work  you  think  nothing  of,  grandfather  !  " 

"Nay,  for  that  I  don't  know.  I  know  I  couldn't 
do  his  !  "' 

"Then  we'll  allow  that  fine  work  may  be  a  manly 
thing  as  well  as  hard  work.  But  I  do  wish  I  could 
shoe  a  horse  !  " 

"  What's  to  hinder  you  ?  " 

"Will  you  let  me  learn,  grandfather?" 

"  Learn  !  I'll  learn  you  myself.  Fbu'll  soon  learn. 
It's  not  as  if  you  was  a  bumpkin  to  teach  I  The  man 
as  can  do  anything,  can  do  everything." 

"Come  along  then,  grandfather!  I  want  to  let 
you  see  that  though  my  hands  may  catch  a  blister  or 
two,  they're  not  the  less  fit  for  hard  work  that  they 
can  do  fine.  I'll  be  safe  to  shoe  a  horse  before  many 
days  are  over.  Only  you  must  have  a  little  patience 
with  me." 

"Nay,  lad,  I'll  have  a  great  patience  with  you. 
Before  many  days  are  over,  make  the  shoe  you  may, 
and  make  it  well ;  but  to  shoe  a  horse  as  the  horse 
ought  to  be  shod,  that  comes  by  God's  grace." 

They  went  back  to  the  smithy,  and  there,  the  very 
day  of  his  arrival,  more  to  Simon's  delight  than  he 
cared  to  show,  the  soft-handed  bookbinder  began  to 
wield  a  hammer,  and  compel  the  stubborn  iron.  So 
deft  and  persevering  was  he,  that,  ere  they  went  from 
the  forge  that  same  night,  he  could  not  only  bend  the 
iron  to  a  proper  curve  round  the  beak  of  the  anvil, 
but  had  punched  the  holes  in  half-a-dozcn  shoes.  At 
last  he  confessed  himself  weary  ;  and  when  his  grand- 


SIMON    ARMOUR.  67 

father  saw  the  state  of  his  hands,  bhstered  and  swol- 
len so  that  he  could  not  close  them,  he  was  able  no 
longer  to  restrain  his  satisfaction. 

"  Come  !  "  he  cried  ;  "  you're  a  man  after  all,  book- 
binder !  In  six  months  I  should  have  you  a  thorough 
blacksmith." 

"I  wouldn't  undertake  to  make  a  bookbinder  of 
you,  grandfather,  in  the  time  !  "  returned  Richard. 

"Tit  for  tat,  sonny,  and  it's  fair!"  said  Simon. 
"I  should  leave  the  devil  his  mark  on  your  white 
pages.  Plow  much  of  them  do  you  read  now,  as 
you  stick  them  together  ?  " 

"Not  a  word  as  I  stick  them  together.  But  many 
are  brought  me  to  be  doctored  and  mended  up,  and 
from  some  of  them  I  take  part  of  my  pay  in  reading 
them — books,  I  mean,  that  I  wouldn't  otherwise  find 
it  easy  to  lay  my  hands  upon — scarce  books,  you 
know." 

"You  would  like  to  go  to  Oxford,  wouldn't  ye,  lad 
— and  lay  in  a  stock  to  last  your  life  out  ?  " 

"You  might  as  well  think  to  lay  victuals  into  you 
for  a  lifetime,  grandfather  !  But  I  should  like  to  lay 
in  a  stock  of  the  tools  to  be  got  at  Oxford  !  It  would 
be  grand  to  be  able  to  pick  the  lock  of  any  door  I 
wanted  to  see  the  other  side  of." 

"I'll  put  you  up  to  pick  any  lock  you  ever  saw, 
or  are  likely  to  see,"  returned  Armour.  "I  served 
my  time  to  a  locksmith.  We  didn't  hit  it  off  always, 
and  so  hit  one  another — as  often  almost  as  the  anvil. 
So  when  I  was  out  of  my  time,  and  couldn't  get  lock- 
smith's work  except  in  a  large  forge,  I  knew  better 
than  take  it :  for  I  couldn't  help  getting  into  rows, 
and  was  afraid  of  doing  somebody  a  mischief  when 
my  blood  was  up.      So  I  started   for  myself  as  a 


68  THERE    AND    BACK. 


general  blacksmith — in  a  small  way,  of  course.  But 
my  right  hand  ain't  forgot  its  cunning  in  locks  !  I'll 
teach  you  to  pick  the  cunningest  lock  in  the  world — 
whether  made  in  Italy  or  in  China." 

"The  lock  I  was  thinking  of,'"  said  Richard,  "was 
that  of  the  tree  of  knowledge." 

"I'veheerd,"  returned  Simon,  with  more  humor 
than  accuracy,  "as  that  was  a raither  pecooliar  lock. 
How  it  was  kep'  red  hot  all  the  time  without  coal 
and  bellows,  I  don't  seem  to  see  !  " 
-:  "Ah!"  said  Richard,  "you  mean  the  flaming 
sword  that  turned  every  way  .f"  " 

"  I  reckon  I  do  !  " 

"You  don't  say  you  believe  that  story,  grand- 
father ?  " 

"I  don't  say  what  I  believe  or  what  I  don't  be- 
lieve. The  flamin'  iron  as  I've  had  to  do  with,  has 
both  kep'  me  onto' knowledge,  an' led  me  into  knowl- 
edge !  I'll  turn  the  tale  over  again  !  You  see,  lad, 
when  I  was  a  boy,  I  thought  everything  my  mother 
said  and  my  father  did,  old-fashioned,  and  a  bit 
ignorant-like ;  but  when  I  was  a  man,  I  saw  that,  if 
I  had  started  right  off  from  where  they  set  me  down, 
I  would  ha'  been  farther  ahead.  To  honor  your 
father  an'  mother  don't  mean  to  stick  by  their  chim- 
bley-corner  all  your  life,  but  to  start  from  their  front 
door  and  go  foret.  I  went  by  the  back  door,  like  the 
fool  I  was,  to  get  into  the  front  road,  and  had  a  long 
round  to  make." 

"  I  sha'n't  do  so  with  my  father.  He  don't  read 
much,  but  he  thinks.     He's  got  a  head,  my  father  !  " 

"  There  was  fathers  afore  yours,  lad  !  You  needn't 
scorn  yer  gran'thcr  for  your  father  !  " 


SIMON    ARMOUR.  69 

"Scorn  you,  grandfather!  God  forbid! — or,  at 
least, " 

"You  don't  see  what  I'm  drivin'  at,  sonny  ! — 
When  an  old  tale  comes  to  me  from  the  far-away 
time,  I  don't  pitch  it  into  the  road,  any  more'n  I 
would  an  old  key  or  an  old  shoe — a  horse-shoe,  I 
mean  :  it  was  something  once,  and  it  may  be  some- 
thing again  !  I  hang  the  one  up,  and  turn  the  other 
over.  An'  if  you  be  strong  set  on  throwin'  either 
away,  lad,  I  misdoubt  me  you  an'  me  won't  blaze 
together  like  one  flamin'  sword  !  " 

Richard  held  his  peace.  The  old  man  had  already 
somehow  impressed  him.  If  he  had  not,  like  his 
father,  bid  good-bye  to  superstition,  there  was  in  him 
a  power  that  was  not  in  his  father — a  power  like  that 
he  found  in  his  favorite  books. 

"Mind  what  he  says,  and  do  vi'hat  he  tells  you, 
and  you'll  get  on  splendid !  "  his  mother  had  said  as 
he  came  away. 

"Don't  be  afraid  of  him,  but  speak  up:  he'll  like 
you  the  better  for  it,"  his  father  had  counselled.  "  I 
should  never  have  married  your  mother  if  I'd  been 
afraid  of  him." 

Richard,  trying  to  follow  both  counsels,  got  on 
with  his  grandfather  better  than  fairly. 


CHAPTER  VII. 


COMPARISONS. 


All  things  belong  to  every  man  who  yields  his 
selfishness,  which  is  his  one  impoverishment,  and 
draws  near  to  his  wealth,  which  is  humanity — not 
humanity  in  the  abstract,  but  the  humanity  of  friends 
and  neighbors  and  all  men.  Selfishness,  I  repeat, 
whether  in  the  form  of  vanity  or  greed,  is  our  poverty. 
John  Tuke,  being  a  clever  man  without  a  spark  of 
genius,  worshipped  faculty  as  he  called  it — wor- 
shipped it  where  he  was  most  familiar  with  it — that  is, 
in  his  own  mind  and  its  operations,  in  his  own  hands 
and  their  handiwork.  His  natural  atmosphere,  how- 
ever, was,  happily,  goodwill  and  kindliness  ;  else  the 
scorn  of  helplessness  which  sprang  from  his  worship 
would  have  supplied  the  other  pole  to  his  selfishness. 

He  even  cherished  unconsciously  the  feeling  that 
his  faculty  was  a  merit.  He  took  the  credit  of  his 
individual  humanity,  as  if  the  good  working  of  his 
brain,  the  thing  he  most  admired,  was  attributable  to 
his  own  will  and  forethought.  The  idea  had  never 
arisen  in  that  brain,  that  he  was  in  the  world  by  no 
creative  intent  of  his  own.  Nothing  had  as  yet  sug- 
gested to  him  that,  after  all,  if  he  was  clever,  he  could 
not  help  it.  It  had  not  occurred  to  him  that  there 
was  a  stage  in  his  history  antecedent  to  his  conscious- 
ness— a  stage  in  which  his  pleasure  with  regard  to 
the  next  could  not  have  been  appealed  to,  or  his  con- 
sent asked — a  stage,  for  any  satisfaction  concerning 


COMPARISONS.  71 

which,  his  resultant  consciousness  must  repose  on  a 
creative  will,  answerable  to  itself  for  his  existence. 
A  man's  patent  of  manhood  is  that  he  can  call  upon 
God — not  the  God  of  any  theology,  right  or  wrong, 
but  the  God  out  of  whose  heart  he  came,  and  in  whose 
heart  he  is.  This  is  his  highest  power — that  which 
constitutes  his  original  likeness  to  God.  Had  any 
one  tried  to  wake  this  idea  in  Tuke,  he  would  have 
mocked  at  the  sound  of  it,  never  seeing  it.  The 
words  which  represented  it  he  would  have  thought 
he  understood,  but  he  would  never  have  laid  hold  of 
the  idea.  He  found  himself  what  he  found  himself, 
and  was  content  with  the  find  ;  therefore  asked  no 
questions  as  to  whence  he  came — was  to  himself 
consequently  as  if  he  had  come  from  nowhere — which 
made  it  easy  for  him  to  imagine  that  he  was  going 
nowhither.  He  had  never  reflected  that  he  had  not 
made  himself,  and  that  therefore  there  might  be  a 
power  somewhere  that  had  called  him  into  being, 
and  had  a  word  to  say  to  him  on  the  matter.  The 
region  where  he  began  to  be,  had  never,  in  speculation 
or  mirage  any  more  than  in  direct  vision,  lifted  itself 
above  the  horizon-line  of  his  consciousness.  An 
ordinarily  well-behaved  man,  with  a  vague  narrow 
regard  for  his  moral  nature,  and  an  admiration  of 
intellectual  humanity  in  the  abstract,  he  thought  of 
himself  as  exceptionally  worthy,  and  as  havingneigh- 
bors  mostly  inferior.  In  relation  to  Richard,  he  was 
especially  pleased  with  himself:  had  he  not,  for  the 
sake  of  the  youth,  puthimself  in  the  danger  of  the  law  ! 
With  not  much  more  introspection  than  his  uncle, 
but  with  a  keener  conscience  and  quicker  observation, 
Richard  had  early  remarked  that,  notwithstanding 
her  assiduity  in  church-going,    his    mother  did   not 


72  THERE    AND    BACK. 


seem  the  happier  for  her  rehg-ion  :  there  was  a  cloud, 
or  seeming  cloud,  on  her  forehead — a  something  that 
implied  the  lack  of  clear  weather  within.  Had  he 
known  more  he  might  have  attributed  it  to  anxiety 
about  his  own  future,  and  the  bearing  her  deed  might 
have  upon  it.  He  might  have  argued  that  she  dreaded 
the  opposition  she  foresaw  to  the  claim  of  her 
nephew  ;  and  felt  that  if  her  act  should  have  despoiled 
him  of  his  inheritance,  life  would  be  worthless  to  her. 
But  in  truth  the  cause  of  her  habitual  gloom  was  much 
deeper.  She  had  from  her  mother  inherited  a  heavy 
sense  of  responsibility,  but  not  the  confidence  in 
whose  strength  her  mother  had  borne  it.  She  had,  that 
is,  an  oppressive  sense  of  the  claims  of  a  supernal 
power,  but  no  feeling  of  the  relationship  which  gives 
those  claims,  no  knowledge  of  the  loving  help 
offered  with  the  presentation  of  the  claims.  Where 
she  might  have  rejoiced  in  the  correlative  claims 
bestowed  upon  her,  she  nourished  only  complaint. 
That  God  had  made  her,  she  could  not  sometimes 
help  feeling  a  liberty  he  had  taken.  How  could  she 
help  it,  not  knowing  him,  or  the  love  that  gave  him 
both  the  power  and  the  right  to  create  !  She  had  no 
window  to  let  in  the  perpendicular  light  of  heaven  ; 
all  the  light  she  had  was  the  horizontal  light  of  duty — 
invaluable,  but,  ever  accompanied  by  its  own  shadow 
of  failure,  giving  neither  joy  nor  hope  nor  strength. 
Her  husband's  sense  of  duty  was  neither  so  strong 
nor  so  uneasy. 

She  had  not  attempted  to  teach  Richard  more,  in 
the  way  of  religion,  than  the  saying  of  certain  prayers, 
a  ceremony  of  questionable  character;  but  the  boy, 
dearly  loving  his  mother,  and  saddened  by  her  lack  of 
spirits,  had  put  things  together — amongst  the  rest,  that 


COMPARISONS.  73 


she  was  always  gloomiest  on  a  Sunday — and  concluded 
that  religion  was  the  cause  of  her  misery.  This  made 
him  ready  to  welcome  the  merest  hint  of  its  false- 
hood. Well  might  the  doctrine  be  false  that  made 
such  a  good  woman  miserable  !  He  had  no  oppor- 
tunity of  learning  what  any  vital,  that  is,  obedient  be- 
liever in  the  lord  of  religion,  might  have  to  say. 
Nothing  he  did  hear  would,  without  the  reflex  of  his 
mother's  unhappiness,  have  waked  in  him  interest 
enough  for  hate  :  what  was  there  about  the  heap  of 
ashes  he  heard  called  the  means  of  grace,  to  set  him 
searching  in  it  for  seeds  of  truth  !  If  we  consider, 
then,  the  dullness  of  the  prophecy,  the  evident  suffer- 
ing of  his  mother,  and  the  equally  evident  though 
silent  contempt  of  his  father,  we  need  not  wonder 
that  Richard  grew  up  in  what  seemed  to  him  a  con- 
viction that  religion  was  worse  than  a  thing  of  nought, 
was  an  evil  phantom,  with  a  terrible  power  to  blight  ; 
a  miasm  that  had  steamed  up  from  the  foul  marshes 
of  the  world,  before  man  was  at  home  in  it,  or  yet 
acquainted  with  the  beneficent  laws  of  Nature.  It 
was  not  merely  a  hopeless  task  to  pray  to  a  power 
which  could  not  be  entreated,  because  it  did  not  exist  ; 
to  believe  in  what  was  not,  must  be  ruinous  to  the 
nature  that  so  believed  !  He  would  give  the  lie  no 
quarter  !  The  best  thing  to  do  for  his  fellow,  the  first 
thing  to  be  done  before  anything  else  could  be  done, 
was  to  deliver  him  from  this  dragon  called  Faith — 
the  more  fearful  that  it  had  no  life,  but  owed  its  being 
and  strength  to  the  falsehood  of  cowards  !  Had  he 
known  more  of  the  working  of  what  is  falsely  called 
religion,  he  would  have  been  yet  more  eager  to  de- 
stroy it.  But  he  knew  something  of  the  tares  only  ; 
he  knew  nothing  of  the  wheat  among  the  tares  ;  knew 


74  THERE    AND    BACK. 


nothing  of  the  wintry  gleams  of  comfort  shed  on  thou- 
sands of  hearts  by  the  most  poverty-stricken  belief 
in  the  merest  and  faultiest  silhouette  of  a  God.  What 
a  mission  it  would  be,  he  thought,  to  deliver  human 
hearts  from  the  vampyre  that,  sucking  away  the  very 
essence  of  life,  kept  fanning  its  unconscious  victims 
with  the  promise  of  a  dreary  existence  beyond  the 
grave,  secured  by  self-immolation  on  the  desolate 
altar  of  an  unlovable  God,  who  yet  called  himself 
Love!  Was  it  not  a  high  emprise  to  rescue  men  from 
the  incubus  of  such  a  mis-imagined  divinity.? 

From  the  first  dawn  of  consciousness,  the  young 
Lestrange  had  loved  his  kind.  He  gathered  the  chief 
joy  of  his  life  from  a  true  relation  to  the  life  around 
him.  Perhaps  the  cause  of  the  early  manifestation 
of  this  bent  in  him  was  the  longing  of  his  mother  in 
her  loneliness  after  a  love  that  grew  the  more  pre- 
cious as  it  seemed  farther  away.  She  had  parted  with 
those  who  always  loved  her,  for  the  love  of  a  man 
who  never  loved  her!  But  left  to  think  and  think, 
she  had  come  at  last  to  see  that  her  loss  was  her  best 
gain.  For,  with  the  loss  of  their  presence,  she  began 
to  know  and  prize  the  simplicities  of  human  affection  ; 
from  lack  of  love  began  to  lift  up  her  heart  to  Love 
himself,  the  father  of  all  our  loves. 

Richard's  love  was  not  such  as  makes  of  another 
the  mirror  wherein  to  realize  self;  he  loved  his  kind 
objectively,  and  was  ready  to  suffer  for  it.  At  school 
he  was  the  champion  of  the  oppressed.  Almost 
always  one  or  other  of  the  little  boys  would  be  under 
his  protection  ;  and  more  than  once,  for  the  sake  of 
a  weaker  he  had  got  severely  beaten.  But  having 
set  himself  to  learn  the  art  of  self-defence,  his  favor 
alone  became  shelter;  and  successful  coverture 
aroused  in  him  yet  more  the  natural  passion  of  pro- 


COMPARISONS. 


75 


tection.  It  became  his  pride  as  well  as  delight  to  be 
a  saviour  to  his  kind.  His  championship  now  sought 
extension  to  his  mother,  and  to  all  sufferers  from 
usurping  creeds. 

His  grandfather  found  him,  as  he  said,  a  chip  of 
the  old  block  ;  and  rejoiced  that  Nature  had  granted 
his  humble  blood  so  potent  a  part  in  this  compound 
of  gentle  and  plebeian  ;  for  Richard  showed  himself 
a  worthy  workman  !  Simon  Armour  declared  there 
was  nothing  the  fellow  could  not  do ;  and  said  to 
himself  there  never  was  such  a  baronet  in  the  old 
Hall  as  his  boy  Dick  would  make.  If  only,  he  said, 
all  the  breeds  worn  out  with  breeding-in  would  revert 
to  the  old  blood  of  Tubal  Cain,  they  might  recover 
his  lease  of  life.  The  day  was  coming,  he  said  to 
himself,  when  there  would  be  a  sight  to  see  at  Mort- 
grange — a  baronet  that  could  shoe  a  horse  better  than 
any  smith  in  the  land  !  If  his  people  then  would  not 
stand  up  for  a  landlord  able  to  thrash  every  man-jack 
of  them,  and  win  his  bread  with  his  own  hands,  they 
deserved  to  become  the  tenants  of  a  London  grocer 
or  American  money-dealer  !  For  his  part,  the  French 
might  have  another  try  !  He  would  not  lift  hammer 
against  them  ! 

By  right  of  inheritance,  Richard's  muscles  grew 
sinewy  and  hard,  and  speedily  was  he  capable  of 
handling  a  hammer  and  persuading  iron  to  the  full 
satisfaction  of  his  teacher.  When  it  came  to  such 
heavy  work  as  required  power  and  skill  at  once,  the 
difference  between  the  two  men  was  very  evident  : 
where  the  whole  strength  is  tasked,  skill  finds  itself 
in  the  lurch  ;  but  Simon  understood  what  could  not 
be  at  once,  as  well  as  what  would  be  at  length. 
Neither  was  he  disappointed,  for,  in  far  less  than 
half  the  time  an   ordinary   apprentice   would   have 


76  THERE    AND    BACK. 


taken,  Richard  could  hold  alternate  swing  with  the 
blacksmith  or  his  man,  as,  blow  for  blow,  they  pierced 
a  block  of  metal  to  form  the  nave  of  a  wheel.  In 
ringing  a  wheel,  he  soon  excelled  ;  and  his  grand- 
father's smithy  being  the  place  for  all  kinds  of  black- 
smith-work, Richard  had  learned  the  trade  before  he 
left.  For,  as  his  fortnight's  holiday  drew  to  an  end, 
he  heard  from  his  parents  that,  as  he  was  doing  so 
well,  they  would  like  him  to  stay  longer. 

One  reason  for  this  their  wish  was,  that  he  might 
become  thoroughly  attached  to  his  grandfather  :  they 
desired  to  secure  the  prejudice  of  the  future  baronet 
for  his  own  people.  At  the  same  time,  by  develop- 
ing in  him  the  workman,  they  thought  to  give  him  a 
better  chance  against  further  dishonoring  and  de- 
grading his  race,  than  his  wretched  father  had  ever 
had :  the  breed  of  Lestranges  must,  they  said,  be 
searched  back  for  generations  to  find  an  honest  man 
in  it.  A  landlord  above  the  selfishness,  and  free  from 
the  prejudices  of  his  class,  would  be  a  new  thing  in  the 
county-histories  ! 

At  the  end  of  six  weeks,  Richard  could  shoe  a  sound 
horse  as  well  as  his  grandfather  himself.  The  old 
man  had  taken  pains  he  would  not  have  spent  on  an 
ordinary  apprentice  :  it  was  worth  doing,  he  said  ; 
^nd  the  return  was  great.  Richard  had  made,  not 
merely  wonderful,  but  wonderfully  steady  progress. 
Not  once  had  he  touched  the  quick  in  driving  those 
perfect  nails  through  the  rind  of  the  marvellous  hoof. 
From  the  first  he  disapproved  of  the  mode  of  shoeing 
in  use,  and  was  certain  a  better  must  one  day  be  dis- 
covered— one,  namely,  that  would  leave  the  natural 
motions  of  hoof  and  leg  unimpeded  ;  but  in  the  mean- 
time he  shod  as  did  other  blacksmiths,  and  gave 
th()rou<rh  satisfriction. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


A  LOST  SHOE. 


It  was  now  late  in  the  autumn.  Several  houses  in 
the  neig-hborhood  were  full  of  visitors,  and  parties 
on  horseback  frequently  passed  the  door  of  the 
smithy — well  known  to  not  a  few  of  the  horses. 

One  evening,  as  the  sun  was  going  down  red  and 
large,  with  a  gorgeous  attendance  of  clouds,  for  the 
day  had  been  wet  but  cleared  in  the  afternoon,  a -small 
mounted  company  came  pretty  fast  along  the  lane, 
which  was  deep  in  mud.  They  were  no  sooner  upon 
the  hard  road  by  the  smithy,  than  one  of  the  ladies 
discovered  her  mare  had  lost  a  hind  shoe. 

"She  couldn't  have  pulled  it  off  in  a  more  con- 
venient spot  !  "  said  a  handsome  young  fellow,  as  he 
dismounted  and  gave  his  horse  to  a  groom.  "  I'll 
take  you  down,  Bab  !  Old  Simon  will  have  a  shoe 
on  Miss  Brown  in  no  time  !  " 

Richard  followed  his  grandfather  to  the  door.  A 
little  girl,  as  she  seemed  to  him,  was  sliding,  with 
her  hand  on  the  young  man's  shoulder,  from  the 
back  of  a  huge  mare.  She  was  the  daintiest  little 
thing,  as  lovely  as  she  was  tiny,  with  clear,  pale, 
regular  features,  under  a  quantity  of  dark-brown  hair. 
But  that  she  was  not  a  child,  he  saw  the  moment  she 
was  down  ;  and  he  soon  discovered  that,  not  her 
beauty,  but  her  heavenly  vivacity,  was  the  more 
captivating  thing    in    her.     At   once   her   very   soul 


78  THERE    AND    BACK. 

seemed  to  go  out  to  meet  whatever  object  claimed 
her  attention.  She  must  know  all  about  everything-, 
and  come  into  relations  with  every  live  thing- !  As  she 
stood  by  the  side  of  the  great  brown  creature  from 
which  she  had  dismounted — hug-e  indeed,  but  carry- 
ing its  bulk  with  a  grand  grace — her  head  reaching 
but  half-way  up  the  slope  of  its  shoulder,  she  laid  her 
cheek  against  it  caressingly.  So  small  and  so  bright, 
the  little  lady  looked  a  very  diamond  of  life. 

A  new  shoe  had  to  be  forged  ;  those  already  half- 
made  were  for  work-horses.  Partly  from  pride  in 
his  skill,  Simon  left  the  task  to  his  grandson,  and 
stood  talking  to  the  young  man.  Little  thought 
Richard,  as  he  turned  the  shoe  on  the  anvil's  beak, 
that  he  was  his  half-brother  !  He  was  a  handsome 
youth,  not  so  tall  as  Richard,  and  with  more  delicate 
features.  His  face  was  pale,  and  wore  a  rather 
serious,  but  self-satisfied  look.  He  talked  to  the  old 
blacksmith,  however,  without  the  slightest  assump- 
tion :  like  others  in  the  neighborhood,  he  regarded 
him  as  odd  and  privileged.  There  were  more  ladies 
and  gentlemen,  but  Richard,  absorbed  in  his  shoe, 
heeded  none  of  the  company. 

He  was  not  more  absorbed,  however,  than  the  girl 
who  stood  beside  him  :  she  watched  every  point  in 
the  making  of  it.  Heedless  of  the  flying  sparks,  she 
gazed  as  if  she  meant  to  make  the  next  shoe  herself. 
Had  Richard  not  been  too  busy  even  to  glance  at 
her,  he  might  have  noticed,  now  and  then,  an  invol- 
untary sympathetic  motion,  imitatively  responsive 
to  one  of  his,  invariably  recurrent  when  he  changed 
the  position  of  the  glowing  iron.  Her  mind  seemed 
working  in  company  with  his  hands  ;  she  was  all 
the  time  doing  the  thing  herself ;  Richard's  activity 


A    LOST    SHOE. 


79 


was  not  merely  reflected,  but  lived  in  her.  When 
he  carried  the  half-forg-ed  iron,  to  apply  it  for  one 
tentative  instant  to  the  mare's  hoof,  Barbara  followed 
him.  The  mare  fidgeted.  But  her  little  mistress, 
who,  noiseless  and  swift  as  a  moth,  was  already  at 
her  head,  spoke  to  her,  breathed  in  her  nostril,  and 
in  a  moment  made  her  forget  what  was  happening 
in  such  a  far-off  province  of  her  being  as  a  hind  foot. 
When  Richard,  back  at  the  forge,  was  placing  the 
shoe  again  in  the  fire,  to  his  surprise  her  little  gloved 
hand  alighted  beside  his  own  on  the  lever  of  the 
bellows,  powerfully  helping  him  to  blow.  When 
once  again  the  shoe  was  on  the  anvil,  there  again 
she  stood  watching — and  watched  until  he  had 
shaped  the  shoe  to  his  intent. 

Old  Simon  did  not  move  to  interfere  :  the  hoof 
required  no  special  attention.  Almost  every  horse- 
hoof  in  a  large  circuit  of  miles  was  known  to  him — ■ 
as  well,  he  would  remark,  as  the  nail  of  his  own 
thumb. 

When  Richard  took  up  the  foot,  in  order  to  prepare 
it  for  the  reception  of  its  new  armor,  again  the  mare' 
was  fidgety;  and  again  the  lady  distracted  her  atten- 
tion, comforting  and  soothing  her  while  Richard 
trimmed  the  hoof  a  little. 

"I  say,  my  man,"  cried  Mr.  Lestrange,  "mind 
what  you're  about  there  with  your  paring  !  I  don't 
want  that  mare  lamed. — She's  much  too  good  for 
'prentice  hands  to  learn  upon,  Simon  !  " 

"  Keep  your  mind  easy,  sir,"  answered  the  black- 
smith. "That  lad's  ain't 'prentice-hands.  He  knows 
what  he's  about  as  well  as  I  do  myself  !  " 

"  He's  young  !  " 


8o  THERE    AND    BACK. 


"Younger,  perhaps,  than  you  think,  sir! — but  he 
knows  his  work." 

It  was  a  pretty  picture — the  girl  peeping  round 
under  the  neck  of  the  great  creature  she  was  caress- 
ing, to  see  how  the  smith  was  getting  on,  whose 
back,  alas  !  hid  his  hands  from  her.  Just  as  he 
finished  driving  his  second  nail,  the  nervous  animal 
gave  her  foot  a  jerk,  and  the  point  of  the  nail, 
through  the  hoof  and  projecting  a  little,  tore  his 
hand,  so  that  the  blood  ran  to  the  ground  in  a 
sudden  rivulet. 

"Hey  !  that  don't  look  much  like  proper  shoeing  !  " 
cried  the  young  man.  "I  hope  to  goodness  that's 
not  the  mare  !  " 

"She's  all  right,"  answered  Richard,  re-arranging 
the  animal's  foot 

But  Simon  saw  the  blood,  and  sprang  to  his  side. 

"What  the  devil  are  you  about,  making  a  fool  of 
me,  Dick  ?  "  he  cried.      "  Get  out  of  the  way." 

"It  was  my  fault,"  said  the  sweetest  voice  from 
under  the  neck  of  the  mare,  to  the  top  of  which  a 
tiny  hand  was  trying  to  reach.  "My  feather  must 
have  tickled  her  nose  !  " 

She  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  blood,  and  turned 
white. 

"  I  am  so  sorry  !  "  she  said,  almost  tearfully.  "  I 
hope  you're  not  much  hurt,  Richard  !  " 

Nothing  seemed  to  escape  her :  she  had  already 
learned  his  name  ! 

"It's  not  worth  being  sorry  about,  miss!"  re- 
turned Richard,  with  a  laugh.  "The  mare  meant 
no  harm  !  " 

"That  I'm  sure  she  didn't — poor  Miss  Brown!" 


A    LOST    SHOE.  8 1 


answered  the  girl,  patting  the  mare's  neck.  "But  I 
wish  it  had  been  my  hand  instead  !  " 

"God  forbid  !  "  cried  Richard.  "That  would  have 
been  a  calamity  !  " 

"It  wouldn't  have  been  half  so  great  a  one.  My 
hand  is — well,  not  of  7nuch  use.  Yours  can  shoe  a 
horse  !  " 

"Yours  would  have  been  spoiled;  mine  will  shoe 
as  well  as  before  !  "  said  Richard. 

It  did  not  occur  to  the  lady  that  the  youth  spoke 
better  than  might  have  been  expected  of  a  country 
smith.  She  was  one  of  the  elect  few  that  meet  every 
one  on  the  common  human  ground,  that  never  fear 
and  never  hurt.  Her  childish  size  and  look  harmo- 
nized with  the  childlike  in  her  style,  but  she  affected 
nothing.  She  would  have  spoken  in  the  same  way 
to  prince  or  poet-laureate,  and  would  have  pleased 
either  as  much  as  the  blacksmith.  At  the  same  time 
she  did  have  pleasure  in  knowing  that  her  frankness 
pleased.  She  could  not  help  being  aware  that  she 
was  a  favorite,  and  she  wanted  to  be  ;  but  she  wanted 
nothing  more  than  to  be  a  favorite.  She  desired  it 
with  old  Betty,  Sir  Wilton's  dairymaid,  just  as  much 
as  with  Mr.  Lestrange,  Sir  Wilton's  heir  ;  and  every- 
body showed  her  favor,  for  she  showed  everybody 
grace. 

The  old  smith  was  finishing  the  shoeing,  and  the 
mare,  well  used  to  him,  and  with  more  faith  in  him, 
stood  perfectly  quiet.  Richard,  a  little  annoyed, 
had  withdrawn,  and  scarce  thinking  what  he  did,  had 
taken  a  rod  of  iron,  thrust  it  into  the  fire,  and  begun 
to  blow.     The  little  lady  approached  him  sofdy. 

"  I'm  so  sorry  !  "  she  said. 

"  I  shall  be  sorry  too,  if  you  think  of  it  any  more. 


02  THERE    AND    BACK. 

miss!"  answered  Richard.      "Then   there    will   be 
two  sorry  where  there  needn't  be  one  !  " 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  curious,  interested, 
puzzled  look,  which  seemed  to  say,  "What  a  nice 
smith  you  are  !  " 

The  youth's  manners  had  a  certain — what  shall  I 
call  it.? — not  polish,  but  rhythm,  which  came  of,  or 
at  least  was  nourished  by  his  love  of  the  finer  ele- 
ments in  literature.  His  friendly  converse  with 
books,  and  through  them  with  certain  of  the  dead 
who  still  speak,  fell  in  with  yet  deeper  influences, 
helping  to  set  him  in  right  atomic  position  toward 
other  human  atoms.  His  brqed  also  contributed 
something.  Happily  for  Richard,  a  man  is  not  born 
only  of  his  father  or  his  grandfather;  mothers  have 
a  share  in  the  form  of  his  being  ;  ancestors  innumer- 
able, men  and  women,  leave  their  traces  in  him. 
But  what  I  have  ventured  to  call  the  rhythm  of  his 
manner  came  of  his  love  of  verse,  and  of  the  true 
material  of  A'^erse. 

His  hand  kept  on  bleeding,  and  for  a  moment  he 
was  tempted,  by  bravado  as  well  as  kindness,  to  use 
the  cautery  so  nigh,  and  prove  to  the  girl  how  little 
he  set  by  what  troubled  her ;  but  he  saw  at  once  it 
would  shock  her,  and  took,  instead,  a  handkerchief 
from  his  pocket  to  bind  it  with.  Instantly  the  little 
lady  was  at  his  service,  and  he  yielded  to  her  mini- 
stration with  a  pleasure  hitherto  unknown  to  him. 
She  took  the  handkerchief  from  his  hand,  but  imme- 
diately gave  it  him  again,  saying,  "  It  is  too  black  !  " 
and  drawing  her  own  from  her  pocket,  deftly  bound 
up  his  wound  with  it.  Speech  abandoned  Richard. 
All  present  looked  on  in  silence.  Certain  of  the  com- 
pany had  seen  her  the  day  before  tie  up  the  leg  of  a 


A    LOST    SHOE.  8^ 


wounded  dog-,  and  had  admired  her  for  it  ;  but  this 
was  different  !  She  was  handling  the  hand  of  a 
human  being — a  man — a  worlcman  ! — black  and  hard 
with  labor  !  There  was  no  necessity  :  the  man  was 
not  in  the  least  danger  !  It  was  nothing  but  a  scratch  ! 
She  was  forgetting  what  was  due  to  herself — and  to 
them  !  Thus  they  thought,  but  thus  they  dared  not 
speak.  They  knew  her,  and  feared  what  she  might 
say  in  reply.  The  mare  was  shod  ere  the  handker- 
chief was  tied  to  the  lady's  mind,  and  Simon  stood, 
hammer  in  hand,  looking  on  like  the  rest  in  silence, 
but  with  a  curious  smile. 

As  she  took  her  hands  from  his,  the  young  black- 
smith looked  thankfulness  into  her  eyes — which 
sparkled  and  shone  with  the  pleasure  of  human  fel- 
lowship, and  without  the  least  shyness  returned  his 
gaze. 

"There!  Good-bye!  I  am  so  sorry!  I  hope 
your  hand  will  be  well  soon  !  "  she  said,  and  at  once 
followed  her  mare,  which  the  smith's  man  was  lead- 
ing with  caution  through  the  door  of  the  smithy, 
rather  too  low  for  Miss  Brown. 

Lestrange  helped  her  to  the  saddle  in  silence,  and 
before  Richard  realized  that  she  was  gone,  he  heard 
the  merriment  of  the  party  mingling  with  the  clang 
of  their  horses'  hoofs,  as  they  went  swinging  down 
the  road.  The  fairy  had  set  them  all  laughing 
already  ! 

The  instant  they  were  gone,  Simon  showed  a 
strange  concern  over  the  insignificant  wound  :  he  had 
been  hasty  with  Richard,  and  unfair  to  him  !  Had 
he  driven  his  nail  one  hair's-breadth  too  near  the 
quick,  Miss  Brown  would  have  made  the  smithy 
tight  for  them  !     He  seemed  anxious  to  show,  with- 


84  THERE    AND    BACK. 

out  actual  confession,  that  he  knew  he  had  spoken 
angrily,  and  was  sorry  for  it.  He  could  not  have 
shod  the  mare  better  himself,  he  said — but  why  the 
deuce  did  he  let  her  tear  his  hand  !  It  was  not  likely 
to  gather,  though,  seeing  Richard  drank  water  !  He 
must  do  nothing  for  a  day  or  two  !  To-morrow  being 
Saturday,  they  would  have  a  holiday  together,  and 
leave  the  work  to  George  ! 


CHAPTER  IX. 


A  HOLIDAY. 


Richard  was  willing  enough,  and  it  only  remained 
to  settle  what  they  would  do  with  their  holiday.  Sup- 
pressing a  chuckle,  Simon  proposed  that  they  should 
have  a  walk,  and  a  look  at  Mortgrange  :  it  was  a 
place  well  worth  seeing!  "And  then,"  he  added, 
giving  his  grandson  a  poke,  "  we  can  ask  after  the 
mare,  and  learn  how  her  new  shoe  fits."  They  had 
known  him  there,  he  said,  the  last  thirty  years,  and 
would  let  them  have  the  run  of  the  place,  for  Sir  Wilton 
and  his  lady  were  from  home.  Richard  had  never — to 
his  knowledge — heard  of  Mortgrange,  for  Simon  had 
hitherto  avoided  even  mentioning  the  place  ;  but  he 
was  ready  to  go  wherever  his  grandfather  pleased. 
Jessie  would  have  company  of  her  own,  Simon  said, 
with  a  nod  and  a  wink  :  they  need  not  trouble  them- 
selves about  her ! 

So  the  next  day,  as  soon  as  they  had  had  their 
breakfast,  they  set  out  to  walk  the  four  or  five  miles 
that,  by  the  road,  lay  between  them  and  Mortgrange. 
It  was  a  fine  frosty  morning.  Not  a  few  yellow 
leaves  were  still  hanging,  and  the  sun  was  warm  and 
bright.  It  was  one  of  those  days  near  the  death  of  the 
year,  that  make  us  wonder  why  the  heart  of  man 
should  revive  and  feel  strong,  while  Nature  is  falling 
into  her  dreary  trance.  Richard  was  dressed  in  a 
tradesman's  Sunday  clothes,  but  tradesman  as  he  was, 


86 


THERE    AND    BACK. 


and  was  proud  to  be,  he  did  not  altog-ether  look  one. 
He  was  in  high  spirits— for  no  reason  but  that  his 
spirits  were  high.  He  was  happy  because  he  was 
happy — "  Hke  any  other  body  !  "  he  would  have  said  : 
where  was  the  wonder  such  a  fine  day,  with  a  pleas- 
ant walk  before  him,  and  his  jolly  grandfather  for 
company  !  That  he  could  not  make  one  hair  white  or 
black,  one  hour  blessed  or  miserable,  did  not  occur 
to  him.  Yet  he  believed  that  joy  or  sorrow  deter- 
mined whether  life  was  or  was  not  worth  living  !  He 
had  never  said  to  himself,  "Here  I  am,  and  cannot 
help  being,  and  yet  can  order  nothing  !  Even  to-day 
I  am  happy  only  because  I  cannot  help  it !  "  He 
had  indeed  begun  to  learn  that  a  man  has  his  duty 
to  mind  before  his  happiness,  and  that  was  much  ; 
but  he  had  not  yet  been  tried  in  the  matter  of  doing 
his  duty  when  unhappy.  How  would  he  feel  then  ? 
Would  he  think  duty  without  happiness  worth  living 
for.?  He  was  happy  now,  and  that  was  enough  ! 
The  putting  forth  of  their  strength  and  skill  doubtless 
makes  many  men  feel  happy — so  long  as  they  are  in 
health  ;  but  how  when  they  come  to  feel  that  that  health 
is  nowise  in  their  power  ?  While  they  have  it,  it  seems 
a  part  of  their  being  inalienable ;  when  they  have 
lost  it,  a  thing  irrecoverable.  Richard  took  the  thing 
that  came,  asked  no  questions,  returned  no  thanks. 
He  found  himself  here  : — whence  he  came  he  did 
not  care  ;  whither  he  went  he  did  not  inquire.  The 
present  was  enough,  for  the  present  was  good  ;  when 

the  present  was  no  longer  good,  why,  then ! 

There  are  those  to  whom  the  present  cannot  be 
good  save  as  a  mode  of  the  infinite.  In  such  their 
divine  origin  asserts  itself.      Once  known  for  what  it 


A    HOLIDAY.  87 

is,  the  poorest  present  is  a  phial  holding-  the  elixir  of 
life. 

On  their  way  Simon  talked  about  the  place  they 
were  going  to  see,  and  said  its  present  owner  was 
an  elderly  man,  not  very  robust,  with  a  second  wife, 
who  looked  as  if  she  had  not  a  drop  of  warm  blood, 
and  yet  as  if  she  might  live  forever. 

"That  was  their  son  that  came  with  the  little 
lady,"  he  said. 

"And  the  little  lady  was  their  daughter,  I  sup- 
pose !  "  rejoined  Richard,  with  an  odd  quiver  some- 
where near  his  heart. 

"She's  an  Australian,  they  say,"  answered  his 
grandfather;  " — no  relation,  I  fancy." 

"Is  Mortgrange  a  grand  place  .?  "  asked  Richard. 

"  It's  a  fine  house  and  a  great  estate,"  answered 
Simon.  "  More  might  be  made  of  it,  no  doubt ;  and 
I  hope  one  day  more  will  be  made  of  it. " 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that,  grandfather.?  " 

"That  I  hope  the  son  will  make  a  better  landlord 
than  the  father." 

They  came  to  a  great  iron  gate,  standing  open, 
without  any  lodge, 

"We're  in  luck  !"  said  the  blacksmith.  "This 
will  save  us  a  long  round  !  Somebody  must  have 
rode  out,  and  been  too  lazy  to  shut  it  !  We'd  bet- 
ter leave  it  as  we  find  it,  though  !  Or  say  we 
bring  the  two  halves  together  without  snapping  the 
locks  !  I  know  the  locks  ;  I  put  'em  both  on  my- 
self.— See  now  what  a  piece  of  work  that  gate  is!. 
All  done  with  the  hand  !  None  o'  your  beastly  cast- 
ing there  !  Up  to  your  work,  that,  I'm  thinking, 
lad .? "  • 

"Indeed  it  is!     Those  gates  are  worth  reducing, 


THERE    AND    BACK. 


for  plates  to  stamp  the  covers  of  a  right  precious 
volume  with  !  " 

Simon  misunderstood,  and  was  on  the  point  of 
flaring  up,  but  what  Richard  followed  with  quieted 
him. 

"  I  could  almost  give  up  bookbinding  to  work  a 
pair  of  gates  like  those  !  "  he  said. 

"I  believe  you,  my  boy!"  returned  his  grand- 
father.     "  Come  and  live  with  me,  and  you  shall !  " 

"But  who  would  buy  them  when  I  had  worked 
them  ? " 

"  If  nobody  had  the  sense,  we'd  put  'em  up  before 
the  cottage  !  " 

"Like  a  door-lock  on  a  prayer-book  !  " 

"No  matter !  They  would  be  worth  the  worth  of 
themselves  ! " 

**  You  would  have  to  make  the  wall  so  high,  there 
would  be  no  light  in  the  house  !  "  persisted  Richard. 

"  Tut,  man  !  did  you  never  hear  of  a  joke  .-'  All 
I  say  is,  that  if  you'll  come  and  work  with  me — I 
don't  need  to  slave  more  than  I  like ;  Tve  got  a  few 
pounds  in  the  bank  ! — if  you'll  work,  I'll  teach  you. 
Leave  me  to  find  a  fit  place  for  what  comes  of  it ! 
They  do  most  things  at  the  foundries  now,  but  there's 
a  market  yet  for  hammer-work — if  it  be  good  enough, 
and  not  too  dear ;  for  them  as  knows  a  good  thing 
when  they  sees  it,  ain't  generally  got  much  money 
to  buy  things.  It's  my  opinion  the  only  way  to  learn 
the  worth  of  a  thing  is  to  have  to  go  without  it." 

"Few  people  fancy  iron  gates,  I  fear." 

"More  might  fancy  them  if  they  were  to  be  had 
good,"  returned  the  old  man. 

The  gate  had  admitted  them  to  a  long  winding 
road,  with  clumps  of  trees  here  and  there  on  the  bor- 


A    HOLIDAY. 


ders  of  it.  The  road  was  apparently  not  much  used, 
for  it  was  more  than  sprinkled  with  grass  all  over. 
A  ploughed  field  was  on  one  side,  and  a  wild  heathy- 
expanse,  dotted  with  fir-trees,  on  the  other.  Sudden- 
ly on  the  side  of  the  field,  gradually  on  that  of  the 
heath,  the  ground  changed  to  the  green  sward  of  a 
park. 

"A  grand  place  for  thinking  !"  said  Richard  to 
himself. 

But  in  truth  Richard  had  hardly  yet  begun  to  think. 
He  only  followed  the  things  that  came  to  him  ;  he 
never  said  to  things,  Come;  neither,  when  they  came, 
did  he  keep  them,  and  make  them  walk  up  and  down 
before  him  till  he  saw  what  they  were;  he  did  not 
search  out  their  pedigree,  get  them  to  give  an  account 
of  themselves,  show  what  they  could  do,  or,  in  short, 
be  themselves  to  him.  He  had  written  a  few  verses 
— not  bad  verses,  but  with  feeling  only,  not  thought 
in  them.  For  instance,  he  had  addressed  an  ode  to 
the  allegorical  personage  called  Liberty,  in  which  he 
bepraised  her  until,  had  she  been  indeed  a  woman, 
she  must  have  been  ashamed  :  she  was  the  one  essen- 
tial of  life  !  the  one  glory  of  existence  !  he  was  no 
man  who  would  not  die  for  her !  But  what  was  the 
thing  he  thus  glorified.?  Liberty  to  go  where  you 
pleased,  do  v/hat  you  liked,  say  what  you  chose  ! — 
that  was  all.  Of  inward  liberty,  of  freedom  from 
mental  or  spiritual  oppression,  from  passion,  from 
prejudice,  from  envy,  from  jealousy,  from  selfish- 
ness, from  unfairness,  from  ambition,  from  false 
admiration,  from  the  power  of  public  opinion,  from 
any  motive  energy  save  that  of  love  and  truth — 
a  freedom  of  which  outward  freedom  is  scarce 
worth  the  shadow — of  such  liberty,  for  all  the  good 


90  THERE    AND    BACK. 


books  he  had  read,  for  all  the  good  poems  he  had 
admired,  Richard  had  not  yet  begun  to  dream,  not 
to  say  ihiiik.  Then  again,  he  would  write  about 
love,  and  he  had  never  been  in  love  in  his  life  !  All 
he  knew  of  love  was  the  pleasure  of  imagining  him- 
self the  object  of  a  tall,  dark-eyed,  long-haired,  devoted 
woman's  admiration.  He  had  never  even  thought 
whether  he  was  worthy  of  being  loved.  He  was 
indeed  more  worthy  of  love  than  many  to  whom  it  is 
freely  given  ;  but  he  knew  no  more  about  it,  I  say, 
than  a  chicken  in  the  shell  knows  of  the  blue  sky. 
The  shabby  spinster,  living  with  her  cousin  the  baker 
in  the  house  opposite,  knew  a  hundred  times  better 
than  he  what  the  word  love  meant :  she  had  a  history, 
he  had  none. 

I  will  not  describe  the  house  of  Mortgrange.  It 
seemed  to  Richard  the  oldest  house  he  had  ever  seen, 
and  it  moved  him  strangely.  He  said  to  himself  the 
man  must  be  happy  who  called  such  a  house  his  own, 
lived  in  it,  and  did  what  he  liked  with  it. 

The  road  they  had  taken  brought  them  to  the  back 
of  the  Hall,  as  the  people  on  the  estate  called  the 
house.  The  blacksmith  went  to  a  side-door,  and 
asked  if  he  and  his  grandson  might  have  a  look  at 
the  place  :  he  had  heard  the  baronet  was  from  home  ! 
The  man  said  he  would  see  ;  and  returning  presently, 
invited  them  to  walk  in. 

Knowing  his  grandson's  passion,  Simon's  main 
thought  in  taking  him  was'to  see  him  in  the  library,  with 
its  ten  thousand  volumes  :  it  would  be  such  a  joke 
to  watch  him  pondering,  admiring,  coveting  his  own  ! 
As  soon,  therefore,  as  they  were  in  the  great  hall,  he 
asked  the  servant  whether  they  might   not  see   the 


A    HOLIDAY.  91 


library.  The  man  left  them  again,  once  more  to 
make  inquiry. 

It  was  a  grand  old  hall  where  they  stood,  fitter  for 
the  house  of  a  great  noble  than  a  mere  baronet  ;  but 
then  the  family  was  older  than  any  noble  family  in 
the  county,  and  the  poor  baronetcy,  granted  to  a 
foolish  ancestor,  on  carpet  considerations,  by  the 
needy  hand  of  the  dominie-king,  was  no  great  feather 
in  the  cap  of  the  Lestranges.  The  house  itself  was 
older  than  any  baronetcy,  for  no  part  of  it  was  later 
than  the  time  of  Elizabeth.  It  was  of  fine 'stone,  and 
of  great  size.  The  hall  was  nearly  sixty  feet  in 
height,  with  three  windows  on  one  side,  and  a  great 
one  at  the  end.  They  were  thirty  feet  from  the 
floor,  had  round  heads,  and  looked  like  church- 
windows.  The  other  side  was  blank.  Mid-height 
along  the  end  opposite  the  great  window  ran  a  gallery. 

To  the  sudden  terror  of  Richard,  who  stood  ab- 
sorbed in  the  stateliness  of  the  place,  an  organ  in  the 
gallery  burst  out  playing.  He  looked  up  trembling, 
but  could  see  only  the  tops  of  the  pipes.  As  the 
sounds  rolled  along  the  roof,  reverberated  from  the 
solid  walls,  and  crept  about  the  corners,  it  seemed  to 
him  that  the  soul  of  the  place  was  throbbing  in  his 
ears  the  words  of  a  poem  centuries  old,  which  he 
had  read  a  day  or  two  before  leaving  London  :— 

"  Erthe  owte  of  erthe  es  wondirly  wroghte, 
Erthe  base  getyn  one  erthe  a  dignyte  of  noghte, 
Erthe  appone  erthe  hase  sett  alle  his  thoghte, 
How  that  erthe  appone  erthe  may  be  heghe  broghte." 

As  he  listened,  his  eyes  settled  upon  a  suit  of  armor 
in  position  ;  it  became  to  him  a  man  benighted,  lost, 
forgotten  in  the  cold  :  the  bones  were  all   dusted  out 


THERE    AND 


of  him  by  the  wintry  winds  ;  only  the  shell  of  him 
was  left. 

"Mr.  Lestrange  is  in  the  library,  and  will  see  Mr. 
Armour,"  said  the  voice  of  the  servant. 

An  election  was  at  hand,  and  at  such  a  time  certain 
persons  are  more  courteous  than  usual. 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE      LIBRARY. 

Simon  and  Richard  followed  the  man  through  a 
narrow  door  in  the  thick  wall,  across  a  wide  passage, 
and  then  along  a  narrow  one.  A  door  was  thrown 
open,  and  they  stepped  into  a  sombre  room.  The 
floor  of  the  hall  was  of  great  echoing  slabs  of  stone, 
but  now  their  feet  sank  in  the  deep  silence  of  a  soft 
carpet. 

Here  a  new  awe,  dwelling,  however,  in  an  air  of 
homeliness,  awoke  in  Richard.  Around  him,  from 
floor  to  ceiling,  was  ranged  a  whole  army  of  books, 
mostly  in  fine  old  bindings  ;  in  spite  of  open  window 
and  great  fire  and  huge  chimney,  the  large  lofty  room 
was  redolent  of  them.  Their  odor,  however,  was  not 
altogether  pleasing  to  Richard,  whose  practiced  organ 
detected  in  it  the  signs  of  a  blamable  degree  of  de- 
cay. The  faint  effluvia  of  decomposing  paper,  leather, 
paste,  and  glue,  were  to  Richard  as  the  air  of  an  ill- 
ventilated  ward  in  the  nostrils  of  a  physician.  He 
sniffed  and  made  an  involuntary  grimace  ;  he  had 
not  seen  Mr.  Lestrange,  who  was  close  to  him,  half 
hidden  by  a  book-case  that  stood  out  from  the  wall. 

"  Good-morning,  Armour  !  "  said  Lestrange. 
"  Your  young  man  does  not  seem  to  relish  books  !  " 

"  In  a  grand  place  like  this,  sir,"  remarked  Richard, 
taking  answer  upon  himself,  "such  a  library  as  I 
never  saw,  except,  of  course,  at  the  British  Museum, 
it  makes  a  man  sorry  to  discover  indications  of  neg- 
lect " 


94  THERE    AND    BACK. 


"What  do  you  mean  ?  "  returned  Lestrange  iu  dis- 
pleasure. 

Richard's  remark  was  the  more  offensive  that  his 
superior  style  issued  in  a  comparatively  common 
tone.  Neither  was  there  anything  in  the  appearance 
of  the  place  to  justify  ]t. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  he  said,  fearing  he  had 
been  rude,  "  but  I  am  a  bookbinder  !  " 

"  Well .?"  rejoined  Lestrange,  taking  him  now  for 
a  sneaking  tradesman  on  the  track  of  a  big  job. 

"  I  know  at  once  the  condition  of  an  old  book  by 
the  smell  of  it,"  pursued  Richard.  "The  moment 
I  came  in,  I  knew  there  must  be  some  here  in 
a  bad  way — not  in  their  clothes  merely,  but  in 
their  bodies  as  well — the  paper  of  them,  I  mean. 
Whether  a  man  has  what  they  call  a  soul  or  not,  a 
book  certainly  has  :  the  paper  and  print  are  the  body, 
and  the  binding  is  the  clothes.  A  gentleman  I  know 
— but  he's  a  mystic — goes  farther,  and  says  the  paper 
is  the  body,  the  print  the  soul,  and  the  meaning  the 
spirit." 

A  pretty  fellow  to  be  an  atheist !  my  reader  may 
well  think. 

Mr.  Lestrange  stared.  He  must  be  a  local  preacher, 
this  blacksmith,  this  bookbinder,  or  whatever  he  was  !• 

"I  am  sorry  you  think  the  books  hypocrites,"  he 
said.  "They  look  all  right !  "  he  added,  casting  his 
eyes  over  the  shelves  before  him. 

"Would  you  mind  me  taking  down  one  or  two  .''  " 
asked  Richard.  "My  hands  are  rather  black,  but  the 
color  is  ingrain,  as  Spenser  might  say." 

"  Do  so,  by  all  means,"  answered  Lestrange,  curious 
to  see  how  far  the  fellow  could  support  with  proof  the 
accuracy  of  his  scent. 


THE    LIBRARY. 


95 


Richard  moved  three  paces,  and  took  down  a  vol- 
ume— one  of  a  set,  the  original  edition  in  quarto  of 
"The  Decline  and  Fall,"  bound  in  russia-leather. 

"I  thought  so!"  he  said;  "going! — going! — 
Look  at  the  joints  of  this  Gibbon,  sir.  That's  always 
the  way  with  russia — now-a-days,  at  least  ! — Smell 
that,  grandfather  !  Isn't  it  sweet  ?  But  there's  no  stay 
in  it !  Smell  that  joint  !  The  leather's  stone-dead  ! — 
It's  the  rarest  thing  to  see  a  volume  bound  in  russia, 
of  which  the  joints  are  not  broken,  or  at  least  crack- 
ing. These  joints,  you  see,  are  gone  to  powder  !  All 
russia  does — sooner  or  later,  whatever  be  the  cause. 
— Just  put  that  joint  to  your  nose,  sir  !  That's  part 
of  what  you  smell  so  strong  in  the  room." 

He  held  out  the  book  to  him,  but  Lestrange  drew 
back  :  it  was  not  fit  his  nose  should  stoop  to  the 
request  of  a  tradesman  ! 

Richard  replaced  the  book,  and  took  down  one 
after  another  of  the  same  set. 

"Every  one,  you  see,  sir,"  he  said,  "going  the 
same  way  I     Dust  to  dust  !  " 

"  If  they're  o// going  that  way,  "remarked  the  young 
man,  "  it  would  cost  every  stick  on  the  estate  to  re- 
bind  them  !  " 

"  I  should  be  sorry  to  rebind  any  of  them.  An  old 
binding  is  like  an  old  picture  !  Just  look  at  this 
French  binding  !  It's  very  dingy,  and  a  good  deal 
broken,  but  you  never  see  anything  like  that  now-a- 
days — as  mellow  as  modest,  and  as  rich,  as  roses  ! 
Here's  one  says  the  same  thing  as  your  grand  hall 
out  there,  only  in  a  piping  voice." 

Lestrange  was  not  exactly  stuck-up  ;  he  had  feared 
the  fellow  was  bumptious,  and  felt  there  was  no  know- 
ing what  he  might  say  next,  but   by   this   time   had 


96  THERE    AND    BACK. 


ceased  to  imagine  his  dignity  in  danger.  The  young 
blacksmith's  admiration  of  the  books  and  of  the  hall 
pleased  him,  and  he  became  more  cordial. 

"  Do  you  say  a//russia-leather  behaves  in  the  same 
fashion  ?  "  he  asked. 

"Yes,  now.  I  fancy  it  did  not  some  years  ago. 
There  may  be  some  change  in  the  preparation  of  the 
leather.  I  don't  know.  It  is  a  great  pity  !  Russia 
is  lovely  to  the  eye — and  to  the  nostrils. — May  I  take 
a  look  at  some  of  the  old  books,  sir  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  call  an  old  book .?  " 

"One  not  later,  say,  than  the  time  of  James  the 
First. — Have  you  a  first  folio,  sir.?  " 

Lestrange  was  thinking  of  his  coming  baronetcy. 

"First  folio.'*  "he  answered,  absently.  "I  dare 
say  you  will  find  a  good  many  first  folios  on  the 
shelves  !  " 

"I  mean  the  folio  Shakspere  of  1623.  There  are, 
of  course,  many  folios  much  scarcer  !  I  saw  one 
the  other  day  that  the  booksellers  themselves  gave 
eight  hundred  guineas  for  !  " 

"What  was  it?"  asked  Lestrange  carelessly. 

"It  was  a  wonderful  copy — unique  as  to  con- 
dition— of  Gower's  Confessio  Amaniis  ; — not  a  very 
interesting  book,  though  I  do  not  doubt  Shakspere 
was  fond  of  it.  You  see  Shakspere  could  hear  the 
stones  preaching  !  " 

"  By  Jove,  a  man  may  hear  the  sticks  do  that  any 
Sunday ! " 

"True  enough,  sir,  ha-ha  1 " 

"  Have  you  read  Gower,  then?" 

' '  A  good  deal  of  him." 

"Was  it  that  same  precious  copy  you  read  him 
in  ? " 


THE    LIBRARY.  97 


"It  was;  but  I  hadn't  time  for  more  than  about 
the  half.      I  must  finish  on  another  edition,  I  fear." 

"How  did  you  get  hold  of  a  book  of  such 
value  ? " 

"The  booksellers  who  bought  it  asked  me  to 
take  it  into  my  hospital.  It  wanted  just  a  little,  a 
very  little  patching.  The  copy  in  the  museum  is 
not  to  compare  to  it." 

"You  say  it  was  not  interesting.?" 

"Not  vefy  interesting,  I  said,  sir." 

"Why  did  you  read  so  much  of  it,  then.?" 

"When  a  book  is  hard  to  come  at,  you  are  the 
more  ready  to  read  it  when  you  have  the  chance." 

"I  suppose  that's  why  one  borrows  his  neighbor's 
books  and  don't  read  his  own  !  I  seldom  take  one 
down  from  those  shelves." 

Richard  felt  as  if  a  wall  was  broken  down  between 
them. 

All  the  time  they  talked,  old  Simon  stood  beside, 
pleased  to  note  how  well  his  grandson  could  hold 
up  the  ball  with  the  young  squire,  but  saying 
nothing.  If  the  matter  had  been  hoof  of  horse, 
cow  or  ass,  he  would  not  have  been  silent :  he 
knew  hoofs  better  than  Richard  knew  books. 

Richard  took  down  a  small  folio,  the  back  of 
which  looked  much  too  soft  and  loose.  Opening 
it,  he  found  what  he  expected — a  wreck.  It  was 
hardly  fit  to  be  called  any  more  a  book.  The 
clothes  had  forsaken  the  body,  or  rather  the  body 
had  decayed  away  from  the  clothes. 

"Now,  look  here  !  "  he  said.      "  Here  is  Cowley's 

Poems — in   such   a  state  that    I    doubt   if  anything 

would  ever  make  a  book  of  it  again.      I  thought  by 

the  back  all  was  wrong  inside  !     Sec  how  the  leaves 

7 


95  THERE    AND    BACK. 

have  come  away  singly  :  the  paper  itself  is  rotten  ! 
I  doubt  if  there  is  any  way  to  make  paper  so  far 
gone  as  this  hold  together.  I  know  a  good  deal  can 
be  done,  and  I  must  learn  what  is  known.  I  sha'n't 
be  master  of  my  trade  till  I  know  all  that  can  be 
done  now  to  stop  such  a  book  from  crumbling  into 
dust !     Then  I  may  find  out  something  more  ! " 

"Well,  for  that  one,  I  don't  think  it  matters  : 
Cowley  ain't  much  !  "  said  Lestrange,  throwing  the 
volume  on  a  table.  "I  remember  once  taking 
down  the  book,  and  trying  to  read  some  of  it :  I 
could  not;  it's  the   dullest  rubbish  ever  written." 

"It's  not  so  bad  as  that,  sir  !  "  answered  Richard, 
and  taking  up  the  book  he  turned  the  leaves  with 
light,  practiced  hand.  "He  was  counted  the 
greatest  poet  of  his  day,  and  no  age  loves  dullness  ! 
Listen  a  moment,  sir;    I  will  read  only  one  stanza." 

He  had  found  the  "Hymn  to  the  Light,"  and 
read  : — 

' '  First-born  of  Chaos,  who  so  fair  didst  come 
From  the  old  Negro's  darksome  womb  ! 
Which  when  it  saw  the  lovely  Child, 
The  melancholy  Mass  put  on  kind  looks  and  smil'd." 

"I  don't  see  much  in  that!"  said  Lestrange,  as 
Richard  closed  the  book,  and  glanced  up  expectant. 

Richard  was  silent  for  an  instant. 

"At  any  rate,"  he  returned,  "it  is  necessary  to 
the  understanding  of  our  history,  that  we  should 
know  the  kind  of  thing  admired  and  called  good  at 
any  given  time  of  it :  so  our  lecturer  at  King's  used 
to  tell  us." 

"At  King's  !  "  cried  Lestrange. 

"King's  College,  London,  I  mean,"  said  Richard. 


THE    LIBRARY.  99 

"They  have  evening  classes  there,  to  which  a  man 
can  go  after  Iiis  day's  work.  My  father  always 
took  care  I  should  have  time  for  anything  I  wanted 
to  do.  I  go  still  when  I  am  at  home — not  always, 
but  when  the  lecturer  takes  up  any  special  subject 
I  want  to  know  more  about."' 

"You'll  be  an  author  yourself  some  day,  I  sup- 
pose !  " 

"There's  little  hope  or  fear  of  that,  sir!  But  I 
can't  bear  not  to  know  what's  in  my  very  hands.  I 
can't  be  content  with  the  outsides  of  the  books  I  bind. 
It  seems  a  shame  to  come  so  near  light  and  never 
see  it  shine.  If  I  were  a  tailor,  I  should  learn  anat- 
omy. I  know  one  tailor  who  is  as  familiar  with  the 
human  form  as  any  sculptor  in  London — more, 
perhaps  1  " 

Lestrange  began  to  feel  uncomfortable.  If  he  let 
this  prodigy  go  on  talking  and  asking  questions,  he 
would  find  out  how  little  he  knew  about  anything  ! 
But  Richard  was  no  prodig3^  He  was  only  a  youth 
capable  of  interest  in  everything,  with  the  stimulus 
of  not  finding  the  fountains  of  knowledge  at  his  very 
door,  and  the  aid  of  having  to  work  all  day  at  some 
pleasant  task,  nearly  associated  with  higher  things 
that  he  loved  better.  He  did  know  a  good  deal  for 
his  age,  but  not  so  very  much  for  his  opportunity,  his 
advantages  being  great.  Most  men  who  learn  would 
learn  more,  I  suspect,  if  they  had  work  to  do,  and 
difficulty  in  the  way  of  learning.  Those  counted 
high  among  Richard's  advantages.  He  was,  besides, 
considerably  attracted  by  the  mechanics  of  literature — 
a  department  little  cultivated  by  those  who  have  most 
need  of  what  grows  In  it. 

Further  talk  followed.      Lestrange  grew  interested 


THERE    AND    BACK. 


in  the  phenomenon  of  a  blacksmith  that  bound  books 
and  read  them.  He  began  to  dream  of  patronage 
and  responsive  devotion.  What  a  thing  it  would  be 
for  him,  in  diter  years,  with  the  cares  of  property  and 
parliament  combining  to  curtail  his  leisure,  to  have 
such  a  man  at  his  beck,  able  to  gather  the  informa- 
tion he  desired,  and  to  reduce,  tabulate  and  embody 
it  so  as  to  render  his  chief  the  best-informed  man  in 
the  House  !  while  at  other  times  he  would  manage 
for  him  his  troublesome  tenants,  and  upon  occasion 
shoe  his  wife's  favorite  horse  !  He  could  also  de- 
pend upon  him  to  provide,  from  the  rich  stores  of 
his  memory,  suitable  quotations  when  he  wished  to 
make  a  speech !  Lestrange  had  never  thought 
whether  the  wish  to  appear  might  not  indicate  the 
duty  to  he  ;  had  never  seen  that,  until  he  was,  to  de- 
sire to  appear  was  to  cherish  the  soul  of  a  sneak.  He 
had  no  notion  of  anything  but  the  look;  no  notion 
that,  having  made  a  good  speech,  he  would  deserve 
an  atom  the  less  praise  for  it  that  he  could  not  have 
made  it  without  his  secretary.  Did  any  one  think 
the  less  of  clearing  a  five-barred  gate,  he  would  have 
answered,  that  it  could  not  be  done  without  a  horse  ! 
Where  M'^as  the  difference.''  A  man  you  paid  to  be 
your  secretary,  still  more  a  man  whose  education  to 
be  your  secretary  you  had  paid  for — was  he  not  yours 
in  a  way  at  least  analogous  to  that  in  which  a  horse 
was  yours.?  He  could  break  away  from  you  more 
easily,  no  doubt,  but  a  man  knew  better  than  a  horse 
on  which  side  his  bread  was  buttered  ! 

"I  think,  squire,  I'll  go  and  have  a  pipe  with  the 
coachman  ! "  said  the  blacksmith  at  length. 

"As  you  please,  Armour,"  answered  Lestrange. 
"I  will  take  care  of  your — nephew,  is  he.'  " 


THE    LIBRARY.  lOT 

"  IMy  grandson,  sir — from  London." 

"All  right!  There's  good  sk.iT  i'^  :he  breed,  Ar- 
mour ! — I  will  bring  him  to  you." 

Richard  went  on  taking  down  book  after  book,  and 
showing  his  hosfhow  much  they  required  attention. 

''And  you  could  set  all  right  for — ? — for  how 
much  ?  "  asked  Lestrange. 

' '  That  no  one  could  say.  It  would,  however,  cost 
little  more  than  time  and  skill.  The  material  would 
not  come  to  much.  Only,  where  the  paper  itself  is 
in  decay,  I  do  not  know  about  that.  I  have  learned 
nothing  in  that  department  yet." 

"For  generations  none  of  us  have  cared  about 
books — that  must  be  why  they  have  gone  so  to  the 
bad! — the  books,  I  mean,"  he  added  with  a  laugh, 
"  There  was  a  bishop,  and  I  think  there  was  a  poet, 
somewhere  in  the  family  ;  but  my  father — hm  ! — I 
doubt  if  he  would  care  to  lay  out  money  on  the 
library  !  " 

"Tell  him,"  suggested  Richard,  "that  it  is  a  very 
valuable  library — at  least  so  it  appears  to  me  from 
the  little  I  have  seen  of  it ;  but  I  am  sure  of  this, 
that  it  is  rapidly  sinking  in  value.  After  another 
twenty  years  of  neglect  it  would  not  fetch  half  the 
price  it  might  easily  be  brought  up  to  now." 

"I  don't  know  that  that  would  weigh  much  with 
him.  So  long  as  he  sees  the  shelves  full  and  the 
book-backs  all  right,  he  won't  want  anything  better. 
He  cares  only  how  things  look." 

"But  the  whole  look  of  the  library  is  growing 
worse — gradually,  it  is  true,  and  in  a  measure  it  can't 
be  helped — but  faster  than  you  would  think,  and 
faster  than  it  ought.  The  backs,  which,  from  a 
library  point  of  view,   are  the  faces  of  the   books. 


^02  THERE    AND    BACK. 

iiiay,  UD  to  3  certain  moment,  look  well,  and  after 
t'hnt'g'o-n^uc'l'"  "more  lapidly.  I  fear  damp  is  getting 
at  these  from  somewhere  !  " 

"Would  you  undertake  to  set  all  right,  if  my 
father  made  you  a  reasonable  offer?  " 

"  I  would — provided  I  found  no  injury  beyond  the 
scope  of  my  experience." 

Richard  spoke  in  book-fashion  :  he  was  speaking 
about  books,  and  to  a  social  superior  !  he  was  not 
really  pompous. 

"Well,  if  my  father  should  come  to  see  the  thing 
as  I  do,  I  will  let  you  know.  Then  will  be  the  time 
for  a  definite  understanding  !  " 

"The  best  way  would  be  that  I  should  come  and 
work  for  a  set  time  :  by  the  progress  I  made,  and 
what  I  cost,  you  could  judge." 

Lestrange  rang  the  bell,  and  ordered  the  attendant 
to  take  the  young  man  to  his  grandfather. 

The  two  wandered  together  over  the  grounds,  and 
Richard  saw  much  to  admire  and  wonder  at,  but 
nothing  to  approach  the  hall  or  the  library. 

On  their  way  home,  Simon,  to  his  grandson's  sur- 
prise, declared  himself  in  favor  of  his  working  at 
the  Mortgrange  library.  But  the  idea  tickled  his 
fancy  so  much,  that  Richard  wondered  at  the  oddity 
of  his  grandfather's  behavior. 


CHAPTER  XI. 


Soon  after  his  visit  to  Mortgrange,  the  young  book- 
binder went  home,  recalled  at  last  by  his  parents. 
John  Tuke  was  shocked  with  the  hardness  and  black- 
ness of  his  hands,  and  called  his  wife's  attention  to 
them.  She,  however,  perh<ips  from  nearer  alliance 
with  the  smithy,  professed  to  regard  their  condition 
as  by  no  means  a  serious  matter.  She  could  not, 
nevertheless,  quite  conceal  her  regret,  for  she  was 
proud  of  her  boy's  hands. 

Richard  supposed  of  course  that  his  father's  annoy- 
ance came  only  from  the  fear  that  his  touch  would 
be  no  logger  sufficiently  delicate  for  certain  parts  of 
his  work ;  and  certainly,  when  he  looked  at  them, 
he  thought  the  points  of  his  fingers  were  broader 
than  before,  and  was  a  little  anxious  lest  they  should 
have  lost  something  of  their  cunning.  He  did  not 
know  that  mechanical  faculty,  for  fine  work  as  well 
as  rough,  goes  in  general  with  square-pointed  fingers. 
Delicately  tapered  fingers,  whatever  they  may  indi- 
cate in  the  way  of  artistic  invention,  are  not  the 
fingers  of  the  painter  or '  the  sculptor.  The  finest 
fingers  of  the  tapering  kind  I  have  ever  seen  were 
those  of  a  distinguished  chemist  of  the  last  genera- 
tion. Eager  to  satisfy  both  his  father  and  himself, 
that  the  hands  of  the  bookmender  had  not  degen- 
erated more  than  his  skill  could  counteract,  Richard 


[04  THERE    AND    BACK. 


selected,  from  a  few  that  were  waiting  his  return, 
the  book  worthiest  of  his  labor,  set  tp  work,  and 
by  a  thorough  success  quickly  effected  his  purpose. 

He  was  now,  however,  anxious,  before  doing  any- 
thing else,  to  learn  all  that  was  known  for  the 
restoration  and  repair  of  the  insides  of  books.  In 
this  an  old-bookseller,  a  friend  of  his  father,  was 
able  to  give  him  no  little  help,  putting  him  up  to 
wrinkles  not  a  few.  Richard  was  surprised  to  see 
how,  M'ith  a  penknife,  on  a  bit  of  glass,  he  would 
pare  the  edge  of  a  scrap  of  paper  to  half  the  thick- 
ness, in  order  to  place  two  such  edges  together,  and 
join  them  without  a  scar.  He  taught  him  how  to 
clean  letterpress  and  engravings  from  ferruginous, 
fungous  and  other  kinds  of  spots.  He  made  him 
acquainted  with  a  process  which  considerably 
strengthened  paper  that  had  become  weak  in  its 
cohesion  ;  and  when  Richard  would  make  further 
experiment,  he  supplied  him  with  valueless  letter- 
press to  work  upon.  His  time  was  thus  more  than 
ever  occupied.  For  many  weeks  he  scarcely  even 
read. 

It  was  not  long,  however,  before  he  bethought  him 
that  he  must  .see  Arthur.  He  went  the  same  evening 
to  call  on  him,  but  found  other  people  in  the  house, 
who  could  tell  him  nothing  about  the  family  that  had 
left.  His  aunt  said  she  had  seen  Alice  once,  and 
knew  they  were  going,  but  did  not  know  where  they 
were  gone.  Richard  would  have  inquired  at  the 
house  in  the  City  where  Arthur  was  employed,  but 
he  did  not  know  even  the  name  of  the  firm.  Once, 
from  the  top  of  an  omnibus,  he  saw  him — in  the 
same  sliabby  old  comforter,  looking  feebler  and  paler 
and   more   depressed   than  ever ;  but  when  he  got 


I05 


down,  he  had  lost  sight  of  him,  and  though  he  ran 
hither  and  thither,  looking  up  this  street  and  that, 
he  recovered  no  glimpse  of  him.  The  selfish 
mother  and  the  wasting  children  came  back  to  him 
vividly  as  he  walked  sadly  home. 

He  had  counted  Alice  the  nicest  girl  he  had  ever 
seen,  but  since  going  to  the  country  had  not  thought 
much  about  her  ;  and  now,  since  seeing  the  fairy-like 
lady  with  the  big  brown  mare,  he  had  a  higher  idea 
of  the  feminine.  But  although  therefore  he  would 
not  have  thought  the  pale,  sweet-faced  dressmaker 
quite  so  pleasing  as  before,  he  would,  because  of  the 
sad  look  into  which  her  countenance  always  settled, 
have  felt  her  quite  as  interesting. 

Richard  had  not  yet  arrived  at  any  readiness  to 
fall  in  love.  It  is  well  when  this  readiness  is  delayed 
until  the  individuality  is  sufficiently  developed  to  have 
its  own  demands.  I  venture  to  think  one  cause  of 
imhappiness  in  marriages  is,  that  each  person's 
peculiar  self  was  not^  at  the  time  of  engagement, 
sufficiently  grown  for  a  natural  selection  of  the  suit- 
able, that  is,  i\\Q  corresponde?!/ ;  and  that  the  develop- 
ment which  follows  is  in  most  cases  the  development 
of  what  is  reciprocally  non-correspondent,  and 
works  for. separation  and  not  approximation.  The 
only  thing  to  overcome  this  or  any  other  disjunctive 
power  is  development  in  the  highest  sense,  that  is, 
development  of  the  highest  and  deepest  in  us — which 
can  come  only  by  doing  right.  The  man  who  is 
growing  to  be  one  with  his  own  nature,  that  is,  one 
with  God  who  is  the  naturing  nature,  is  coming 
nearer  and  nearer  to  every  one  of  his  fellow-beings. 
This  may  seem  a  long  way  round  to  love,  but  it  is 
the  only  road  by  which  we  can  arrive  at  true  love  of 


io6 


THERE    AND    BACK. 


any  kind  ;  and  he  who  does  not  walk   in   it  will  one 
day  find  himself  on  the  verge  of  a  g-ulf  of  hate. 

Individuality,  forestalled  by  indifference,  had  no 
chance  of  keeping  Sir  Wilton  and  Lady  Ann  apart, 
but  certainly  had  done  nothing  to  bring  them 
together.  Where  all  is  selfishness  on  both  sides, 
what  other  correspondences  may  exist  will  hardly 
come  into  play.  The  loss  of  the  unloved  heir  had 
perhaps  done  a  little  to  approximate  them  ;  but  they 
speedily  ceased  to  hold  any  communication  of  ideas 
on  the  matter.  As  they  did  nothing  to  recover  him, 
so  they  seemed  to  take  almost  no  thought  as  to 
his  existence  or  non-existence.  If  he  were  alive, 
neither  father  nor  stepmother  had  the  least  desire  to 
discover  him.  Answering  honestly,  each  would 
have  chosen  that  he  should  remain  unheard  of.  As 
to  the  possibility  of  his  dying  in  want,  or  being 
brought  up  in  wickedness,  that  did  not  trouble  either 
of  them.  His  stepmother  did  not  think  the  more 
tenderly  of  another  woman's  child  that  she  cared  for 
her  own  children  only  because  they  were  hers.  If 
you  could  have  got  the  idea  into  the  pinched  soul  of 
Lady  Ann,  that  the  human  race  is  one  family,  it 
would  but  have  enhanced  her  general  dislike,  her 
feeble  enmity  to  humanity.  When  she  did  or  said 
anything  to  displease  him,  Sir  Wilton  would  some- 
times hint  at  a  new  advertisement,  but  she  did  not 
much  heed  the  threat.  On  the  whole,  however,  they 
had  got  on  better  than  might  have  been  expected, 
partly  in  virtue  oflicr  sharp  tongue  and  her  thick 
skin,  which  combination  of  the  offensive  and  defen- 
sive put  Sir  Wilton  at  a  disadvantage  :  however 
sharp  his  retort  might  be,  she  never  felt  it,  but  went 
on ;    and    harping    does    not    always    mean    such 


107 


pleasant  music,  that  you  want  to  keep  the  harper 
awake.  She  had  brought  him  four  children — Arthur, 
the  one  whose  acquaintance  Richard  had  made,  a 
younger  brother  who  promised  foully,  and  two  girls 
— the  elder  common  in  feature  and  slow  in  wits,  but 
with  eyes  and  a  heart  ;  the  younger  clever  and 
malicious. 

One  stormy  winter  night,  as  Richard  was  returning 
from  a  house  in  Park  Crescent,  to  which  he  had 
carried  home  a  valuable  book  restored  to  strength 
and  some  degree  of  aged  beauty,  from  one  of  the 
narrow  openings  on  the  east  side  of  Regent  Street, 
came  a  girl,  fighting  with  the  wind  and  a  weak- 
ribbed  umbrella,  and  ran  buffeted  against  him,  not- 
withstanding his  endeavor  to  leave  her  room.  The 
collision  was  very  slight,  but  she  looked  up  and 
begged  his  pardon.  It  was  Alice.  Before  he  could 
speak,  she  gave  a  cry,  and  went  from  him  in  blind 
haste  as  fast  as  she  could  go  ;  but  with,  the  fierce 
wind,  her  fjerturbation,  and  the  unruliness  of  the 
umbrella,  which  she  was  vainly  trying  to  close  that 
she  might  run  the  better,  she  struck  full  against  a 
lamp-post,  and  stood  like  one  stunned  and  on  the 
point  of  falling.  Richard,  however,  was  close 
behind  her,  and  put  an  arm  round  her.  She  did  not 
resist ;  she  was  indeed  but  half-conscious.  The 
same  moment  he  saw  a  cab  and  hailed  it.  The  man 
heard  and  came.  Richard  lifted  her  into  it,  and  got 
in  after  her.  But  Alice  came  to  herself,  got  up,  and 
leaning  out  of  the  cab  on  the  street  side,  tried  to  open 
the  door.  Richard  caught  her,  drew  her  back,  and 
made  her  sit  down  again. 

"  Richard  !  Richard  !  "  she  cried,  as  she  yielded  to 
his  superior  strength,  and  burst  into  tears,  "where 
are  you  taking  me  ?  " 


lo8  THERE    AND    BACK. 


"Wherever  you  like,  Alice.  You  shall  tell  the 
cabman  yourself.  What  is  the  matter  with  you.? 
Don't  be  angry  with  me.  It  is  not  my  fault  that  I 
have  not  been  to  see  you  and  Arthur.  You  went 
away,  and  nobody  could  tell  me  where  to  find  you  ! 
Give  the  cabman  your  address,  Alice." 

"I'm  not  going  home,"  sobbed  Alice. 

"Where  are  you  going,  then  ?  I  will  go  with  you. 
You're  not  fit  to  go  anywhere  alone  !  I'm  afraid 
you're  badly  hurt !  " 

"No,  no!  Do  let  me  out.  Indeed,  indeed,  you 
.must !  " 

"  Well,  then,  I  won't  !  You'll  drop  down  and  be 
left  to  the  police  !  It's  horrible  to  think  of  you  out 
in  such  a  night !  Come  home  with  me.  If  you  are 
in  any  trouble,  my  mother  will  help  you." 

Here  Alice,  who  had  yielded  to  the  pressure  with 
which  Richard  held  her,  broke  from  him,  and  pushed 
him  away.  Richard  put  his  other  arm  across,  and 
laid  hold  of  the  door  of  the  cab,  telling  the  man  to 
get  up  on  his  box,  and  have  a  little  patience.  He 
obeyed,   and  Richard  turned  again  to  Alice. 

"Richard,"  she  said,  "your  mother  would  kill 
me  !  " 

"Nonsense  I  "  he  rejoined  ;  "  what  a  fancy  !  IMy 
mother ! " 

"I've  seen  her   since  you  went.     She   made   me 

promise " 

But  there  Alice  stopped,  and  Richard  could  get 
from  her  nothing  but  entreaties  to  be  let  out. 

"  If  you  don't,"  she  said  at  last,  growing  desperate, 
"  I  will  scream." 

"Let  me  take  you  at  least,  then,  a  little  nearer 
where  you  want  to  go,"  pleaded  Richard. 


109 


"No!   no!   set  me  down." 

"  Tell  me  where  you  live." 

"  I  daren't." 

"I  must  see  my  old  friend,  Arthur!  and  why 
shouldn't  I  see  his  sister  ?  My  father  and  mother 
ain't  tyrants  !  They  know  what  that  would  make 
of  me  !  They  let  me  go  where  I  please,  or  give  a 
good  reason  why  1  should  not." 

"  Oh,  they'll  do  that  fast  enough  !  "  returned  Alice, 
in  a  tone  of  mingled  despair  and  scorn.  "  But,"  she 
added  immediately,  "the  worst  of  it  is,  they'll  be  in 
the  right.     Let  me  out,  Richard,  or  I  shall  hate  you  !  " 

But  with  the  word  she  dropped  her  head  on  his 
shoulder,  and  sobbed  as  if  her  heart  would  sob  its  last. 

He  made  repeated  attempts  to  soothe  her,  but,  as 
he  made  them,  he  felt  them  foolish,  for  he  saw  that 
nothing  would  alter  her  determination  to  be  set  down. 

"Must  I  leave  you,  then,  on  this  very  spot.^"  he 
said. 

"Yes,  yes  !  here — here  !  "  she  answered,  and  rose 
with  apparent  eagerness  to  get  away  from  him. 

He  got  out,  and  turned  to  her,  but  she  did  not  accept 
his  offered  help. 

"Won't  you  shake  hands  with  me  ?  "  he  said.  ' '  I 
did  not  mean  to  offend  you  !  " 

She  answered  nothing,  but  hurried  away  a  step  or 
two,  then  turned  and  lifted  her  arms  as  if  to  embrace 
him,  but  turned  again  instantly,  and  fled  away  among 
the  shadows  of  the  wildly  flickering  lamps.  By  the 
time  he  had  paid  the  cabman,  he  saw  it  would  be 
useless  to  follow,  for  she  was  out  of  sight. 

The  wide  street  was  almost  deserted  ;  its  lamps 
shuddered  flaring  and  streaming  and  darkening  in  the 
fierce  gusts  of  the  wind.     A  vague  army  of  evil  things 


no  THERE    AND    BACK. 

seemed  to  start  up  and  come  crowding  between  him 
and  Alice.  He  turned  homeward,  with  a  sense  of 
loss  and  a  great  sadness  at  his  heart,  unable  even  to 
speculate  as  to  the  cause  of  Alice's  behavior.  All  he 
knew  was,  that  his  mother  had  something  to  do  with 
it.  For  the  first  time  since  childhood,  he  felt  angry 
with  his  mother. 

"She  fancies,"' he  said  to  himself,  "that  I  am  in 
love  with  the  girl,  and  she  thinks  her  not  good  enough 
for  me  !  I'm  not  in  love  with  her  ;  but  any  good 
girl  I  cared  for,  I  should  count  good  enough  !  When 
my  mother's  turn  comes,  off  she  goes  to  the  rest  of 
the  social  tyrants  that  look  down  on  a  brother  because 
he  can  do  twenty  things  they  can't !  If  the  world 
went  out  of  gear,  would  ihey  make  it  go .?  I'll  be  fair 
whatever  I  be  !  It'll  be  my  mother's  own  fault  if  I 
fall  in  love  with  Alice  !  She  has  made  me  pity  her 
with  all  my  heart — the  poor,  white  thing  ! — so  thin 
and  pinched,  and  such  big  eyes!  It  would  be  just 
bliss  to  have  a  creature  like  that  to  trust  you,  so  that 
you  could  comfort  her  !  What  can  my  mother  have 
said  to  her.?  She  has  made  her  awfully  miserable, 
anyhow  !  Perhaps  her  mother  drinks  ! — What  if  she 
do  !     Alice  don't !  " 

He  was  determined  to  have  some  explanation  from 
his  mother.  But  she  foiled  him.  The  moment  she 
saw  what  he  meant,  she  turned  away,  listened  in 
silence,  and  spoke  with  a  decision  that  savored  of 
anger. 

"They're  not  people  your  father  and  I  will  have 
you  know,"  she  said,  without  looking  at  him. 

"But  why,  mother.?  "  asked  Richard. 

"We're  not  bound  to  explain  everything  to  you, 
Richard.  It  ought  to  be  enough  that  wc  have  a  good 
reason." 


"If  it  be  a  good  reason,  why  shouldn't  I  know  it, 
mother?  "  he  persisted.  "Good  things  don't  require 
to  be  hidden." 

"That's  very  true  ;  they  do  not." 

"Then  why  hide  this  one.?" 

"Because  it  is  not  good." 

"  You  said  it  was  a  good  reason  !  " 

"So  it  is." 

"Good  and  not  good  !  How  can  that  be.?"  said 
Richard,  with  a  great  lack  of  logic.  By  this  time  he 
ought  to  have  been  able  to  see  that  the  worst  of  facts 
may  be  the  best  of  reasons. 

His  mother  held  her  peace,  knowing  she  was  right, 
but  not  knowing  how  to  answer  what  she  thought 
his  cleverness. 

"  I  mean  to  go  and  see  them,  mother,"  he  said. 

"You'll  repent  it,  Richard.  The  woman  is  not 
respectable  !  " 

"  She  won't  bite  me  !  " 

"There's  worse  than  biting  !  " 

"I  allow,"  pursued  Richard,  "she  may  take  a  drop 
too  much  ;  her  nose  does  look  a  little  suspicious  ! 
But  if  she  ain't  what  she  should  be,  it's  hard  lines 
Arthur  and  Alice  should  suffer  for  the  sins  of  their 
mother." 

"The  Bible  says  the  sins  of  the  fathers  are  visited 
on  the  children." 

"The  Bible!  If  the  Bible  says  what  ain't  right, 
are  we  to  do  it? " 

"Richard,  I'll  have  no  such  word  spoken  again  in 
my  house  !  "  exclaimed  his  mother. 

"Are  you  going  to  turn  me  out,  mother,  because 
I  say  we  should  not  do  what  is  wrong,  whoever  tells 
us  to  ?  " 


I  12  THERE    AND    BACK. 

"  No,  Richard  !  You  said  the  Bible  said  what  was 
wrong  ;  and  that's  blasphemy  !  "' 

"Didn't  you  say,  mother,  that  the  Bible  said  we 
ought  to  visit  the  sins  of  the  fathers  on  the  children  ?  " 

"God  forbid  !  "  cried  the  })Oor  woman,  driven  almost 
to  distraction  ;  "I  said  nothing  of  the  kind!  That 
would  be  awful !  What  the  Bible  says  is,  that  God 
does  so." 

"Well,  if  God  chooses,  we  must  leave  him  to  do 
as  he  chooses — not  do  likewise  !  " 

"Surely,  surely,  Richard  !  If  he  does  it,  he  knows 
what  he's  about,  and  we  don't." 

"All  right,  mother!  Then  tell  me  where  Arthur 
and  Alice  are  gone.     I  want  to  go  and  see  them." 

"  I  don't  know.  In  fact,  I  took  care  not  to  know, 
that  I  mightn't  be  able  to  tell  you." 

"  But  why  ?  " 

"  Never  mind  why.  I  don't  know  where  they  are, 
and  couldn't  tell  you  if  I  would." 

Richard  turned  angrily  away,  and  went  to  his 
room,  weary  and  annoyed. 

In  the  morning  his  mother  said  to  him — 

"Richard,  I  can't  bear  there  should  be  any  mis- 
understanding between  you  and  me  1  The  moment 
you  are  one-and-twenty,  ask  me  and  I  will  tell  you 
why  I  would  not  have  you  knowing  those  people. 
Believe  me,  I  was  right  to  stop  it,  for  fear  of  what 
might  follow." 

"  If  you  are  afraid  of  my  falling  in  love  with  a  girl 
you  don't  think  good  enough  for  me,  you  have  taken 
the  wrong  way  to  keep  me  from  thinking  about  her, 
mother.  You  remember  the  costermonger  whose 
family  quarrelled  with  him  for  marrying  beneath 
him.?     If  a  girl  be  a  good  girl,  she  is  good  for  me, 


113 


whether  she  be  the  daughter  of  a  cats'-meat-man  or 
of  a  royal  duke  !  I  know  that's  not  the  way  people 
who  call  themselves  Christians  think  !  They  want, 
of  course,  to  keep  up  the  selfishness  of  the  breed  !  " 

It  was  horribly  rude,  and  Jane  burst  into  tears. 
Richard's  heart  softened.  It  is  well  our  hearts  are 
sometimes  in  advance  of  our  consciences — we  are  so 
slow  to  recognize  injustice  in  defence  of  the  right! 
Richard's  wrong  to  his  mother  was  a  lack  of  faith  in 
her.  Where  he  did  not  understand  and  she  would 
not  explain,  he  did  not  even  give  her  the  benefit  of 
the  doubt.  He  treated  her  just  as  many  of  us,  call- 
ing ourselves  Christians,  treat  the  Father — not  in 
M'ords,  perhaps,  or  even  in  definite  thoughts,  but  in 
feelings  and  actions. 

"You  will  be  sorry  for  this  one  day,  Richard!  " 
she  sobbed,  "Whatever  I  do  is  from  care  over 
you ! " 

"To  wrong  another  for  my  sake,  never  can  be 
any  good  to  me.  If  money  wrong-got  be  a  curse, 
so  is  any  good  wrong-got." 

"You  won't  trust  me,  Richard  !  My  own  father 
is  a  blacksmith  :  why  should  I  look  down  upon  a 
dressm.aker.? " 

"That's  just  what  I  think,  mother  ! — Why  ?  " 

"I  don't!"  returned  Mrs.  Tuke — and  there  she 
paused  :  another  step  might  bring  her  to  the  edge  of 
the  gulf ! 

Richard  looked  at  her  moodily  for  a  moment,  then 
turned  away  to  the  workshop  ;  where,  after  his  ill 
success  with  his  mother,  he  was  hardly  less  disin- 
clined to  challenge  his  father  than  before,  for  he 
knew  him  inexpugnable. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

MORTGRANGE. 

In  the  spring  came  a  letter  from  young  Lestrange, 
through  Simon  Armour,  asking  Richard  upon  what 
terms  he  would  undertake  the  work  wanted  in  the 
library. 

He  handed  the  letter  to  his  father,  and  they  held  a 
consultation. 

"There's  this  to  be  considered,"  said  the  book- 
binder, "that,  if  you  go  there,  you  lose  your  con- 
nection here — in  a  measure,  at  least.  Therefore  you 
cannot  do  the  work  at  the  same  rate  as  in  your  own 
shop." 

"  On  the  other  hand,  I  should  have  my  keep." 

"That  is  true,  and  of  course  is  something ;  but  I 
think  it  may  fairly  be  held  to  do  no  more  than  make 
up  for  the  advantages  of  living  in  London — your 
classes,  for  instance. " 

"Anyhow  I  must  be  paid  so  much  a  month,  and 
do  what  I  can  in  the  time.  I  couldn't  charge  by  the 
individual  job  in  a  man's  own  house  ! — The  thing  I 
am  afraid  of  is,  that,  not  knowing  the  niceties  of  the 
work,  they  may  fancy  I  don't  do  enough." 

"  In  the  other  way  they  would  fancy  you  charged 
too  much,  and  that  would  come  to  the  same  thing  ! — 
But  they  will  at  least  discover  that  you  keep  to  your 
hours  and  stick  to  your  work  ! — We  must  calculate 
by  what  the  best  hands  in  the  trade  get  a  week  I  " 


MORTGRANGE.  II5 


The  terms  they  concluded  to  ask  appeared  to  Les- 
trang-e  reasonable.  He  proposed  then  that  Richard 
should  bind  himself  for  not  less  than  a  year,  while 
Lestrange  reserved  the  right  of  giving  him  a  month's 
notice;  and  these  points  being  willingly  assented  to 
by  Richard,  an  agreement  was  drawn  up  and  signed 
— much  to  the  satisfaction  of  Simon  Armour,  whose 
first  thought  was  that  the  work  would  not  be  too 
hard  for  Richard  to  want  a  little  exercise  at  the  forge 
after  hours.  Richard,  however,  well  as  he  liked  the 
anvil,  was  not  so  sure  about  this  :  there  might  be 
books  to  read  after  he  had  done  his  day's  duty  by 
their  garments  !  He  had  half  laid  out  for  himself  a 
plan  of  study  in  his  leisure  time,  he  said. 

It  was  a  lovely  evening  when  he  arrived  at  Mort- 
grange  from  his  grandfather's.  He  was  shown  to 
his  new  quarters  in  the  old  mansion  by  the  house- 
keeper, an  elderly,  worthy  creature,  with  the  air  of 
a  hostess.  She  liked  the  young  man  ;  the  honest 
friendliness  of  his  carriage  pleased  her.  He  was 
handsome  too,  though  not  strikingly  so,  and  his  ex- 
pression was  better  than  any  handsomeness,  inspir- 
ing the  honest  with  confidence,  and  giving  little  hope 
to  the  designing.  His  brave  outlook,  not  bold  so 
much  as  fearless,  and  his  ready  smile,  seemed  those 
of  a  man  more  prepared  than  eager  to  do  his  part  in 
the  world.  He  was  well  set  up,  and  of  good  figure, 
for  the  slight  roundness  of  his  shoulders  had  almost 
disappeared.  The  poise  of  his  head,  and  the  pro- 
portions of  his  limbs,  left  nothing  to  be  desired.  His 
foster-parents  had  encouraged  him  in  every  manly 
exercise,  for  they  were  wise  enough  to  have  regard 
to  the  impression  he  must  make  at  first  sight :  they 
would  have  it  easy  to  believe  that  he  might  be  what 


Il6  THERE    AND    BACK. 


they  were  about  to  swear  he  was.  Nor  had  his 
sojourn  with  his  grandfather  been  the  least  factor  in 
the  result  that  he  sat  down  to  his  work  as  lightly  as 
a  gentleman  to  his  dinner,  turned  from  it  as  if  he 
had  been  playing  a  game  instead  of  earning  his 
bread,  and  altogether  gave  the  impression  of  being  a 
painter  or  sculptor  rather  than  a  tradesman.  There 
w^as  that  in  his  bearing  which  suggested  a  will  rather 
than  necessity  to  labor. 

"Here  is  your  room,  young  man,"  said  ]\Irs. 
Locke. 

It  was  a  large,  rather  neglected  chamber,  at  the 
end  of  a  long  passage  on  the  second  floor — the  very 
room  out  of  which  one  midnight  he  had  been  borne 
in  terror,  twenty  years  before,  by  the  woman  he 
called  his  mother. 

"And  I  hope  you  will  find  yourself  comfortable," 
continued  the  old  lady,  in  a  tone  that  implied — "You 
ought  to  be  !  " — "  If  you  want  anything,  or  have  any- 
thing to  complain  of,  let  me  know,"  she  added. 
" — I  thought  it  better  not  to  put  you  in  the  servants' 
quarters  ! " 

"Thank  you,  ma'am,"  said  Richard.  "This  is  a 
beautiful  room  for  me  !  Do  you  know,  ma'am, 
where  I'm  to  work  ?  " 

"I  have  not  been  informed, "she  answered,  as  she 
left  the  room.      "Mr.  Lestrange  will  see  to  that." 

Richard  went  to  the  window.  Before  him  spread 
an  extensive  but  somewhat  bare  park,  for  the  trees 
in  it  were  rather  few.  Some  of  them,  however, 
were  grand  ones  :  many  had  been  cut  down,  but  a 
few  of  the  finest  left.  A  sea  of  grass  lay  in  every 
direction,  with  islands  of  clumps  and  thickets,  and 
vague  shores  of  hedge  and  wood  and  ploughed  field. 


MORTGRANGE.  II7 


On  the  grass-  were  cattle  and  sheep  and  fallow  deer. 
On  this  side,  nothing  came  between  the  park  and  the 
house. 

The  day  was  late  in  the  spring ;  summer  was  close 
at  hand.  There  had  been  rain  all  the  morning  and 
afternoon,  but  the  clouds  were  clearing  away  as  now 
the  sun  went  down.  Everything  was  wet,  but  the 
undried  tears  of  the  day  flashed  in  the  sunset.  Na- 
ture looked  a  child  whose  gladness  had  come,  but 
who  could  not  stop  crying  :  so  heartily  had  she  gone 
in  for  sorrow,  that  her  mind  was  shaped  to  weeping. 
Most  of  the  clouds,  late  so  dark  and  sullen,  were  put- 
ting on  garments  of  light,  as  if  resolved  to  forgive 
and  forget,  and  leave  no  doubt  of  it.  But  the  sun 
did  not  look  satisfied  with  his  day's  work.  Slant 
across  the  world  to  Richard's  window  came  the  last 
of  his  vanishing  rays,  blinding  him  as  he  brooded, 
and  obliterating  all  between  them  in  a  throbbing 
splendor  ;  yet  somehow  the  sun  seemed  sad,  as  if 
atonement  had  come  too  late.  The  edge  extreme  of 
the  glory  vanished  ;  a  moment's  cloud  followed  ;  and 
then,  when  the  radiance  of  him  who  was  gone  grew 
rosy  and  golden  above  his  grave,  Richard  began  to 
see  much  that  his  presence  had  been  hiding.  But 
the  revelation  did  not  linger  long.  The  clouds  closed 
on  the  twilight,  the  world  grew  almost  dismal,  and 
the  sadness  crept  into  Richard  ;  or  was  it  not  rather 
that  his  own  hidden  sadness  rose  up  to  m^eet  the  sad- 
ness of  the  world.?  Yet,  even  as  he  became  aware 
of  it,  something  in  him  recognized  it  as  a  thing  for- 
eign to  the  human  heart  :  "We  were" not  made  for 
this!"  he  said.  " — We  are  not  here,  I  mean,"  he 
corrected  himself,  " — we  have  aiot  sprung  into  being 
in  order  to  be  sad  !     There  is  no  reason  in  sadness  ! 


Il8  THERE    AND    BACK. 

There  is  cause  enough,  man  at  least  knows,  but  essen- 
tial reason  at  the  heart  of  its  existence  there  is  none  ! 
Whence,  then,  comes  this  mistake,  this  sadness?" 
he  went  on  with  himself.  "Why  should  there  be  so 
much  of  it  in  the  world.?  Is  it  that,  as  for  all  other 
good  things,  a  man  must  put  forth  his  will  for  joy.' 
It  is  plain  a  man  must  assert  what  is  highest  in  him, 
else  he  cannot  lay  hold  (jf  the  best  :  must  a  man  will 
to  be  glad,  else  deserve  to  be  sorrowful  ?  "  He  began 
to  whistle.  "I  will  be  glad!  "he  said,  "even  in  the 
midst  of  a  world  of  rain  ! — Yet  again,  why  should 
the  mere  look  of  a  rainy  night  make  it  needful  for  me 
to  assert  joy  and  resist  sadness.? — After  all,  what  is 
there  to  be  merry  about,  in  this  best  of  possible 
worlds.?  I  like  going  to  the  theater;  but  if  I  don't 
like  the  play,  am  I  to  be  pleased  all  the  same,  sit  it 
out  with  smiles,  and  applaud  at  the  end.?  I  don't 
see  what  there  is  to  make  me  miserable,  and  I  don't 
see  what  there  is  to  make  me  glad  !  " 

Would  it  have  cast  any  light  either  on  Richard's 
gloom  or  his  perplexity,  had  he  been  told  that,  in  the 
place  where  he  stood  staring  out  on  the  gray,  form- 
less twilight,  his  mother  had  often  sought  refuge, 
and  tasted  the  comfort  of  an  assuagement  of  splendor. 
She  had  not  appropriated  the  room,  and  it  was  some 
time  before  the  household  knew  that  she  was  in  the 
way  of  going  there  :  it  was  awkwardly  situated  in  a 
remote  part  of  the  house  and  rarely  used — which 
made  its  attraction  for  Lady  Lestrange.  But  the  faith- 
ful sister  did  not  forget  where  she  had  once  found 
her  on  her  knees  weeping,  and  chose  it  for  herself 
and  her  charge  when  she  was  gone. 

In  a  few  minutes  Richard  arrived  at  the  conclu- 
sion that  he  would  be    all  right  as  soon  as  he  got 


MORTGRANGE. 


119 


among'  the  wine-bins  of  the  library.  He  did  not  re- 
flect how  little  of  a  man  is  he  whose  sense  of  well- 
being  is  at  the  mercy  of  a  Scotch  mist  or  a  cloudy 
twilight.  Neither  did  he  put  to  himself  the  question 
whether  the  mending  of  the  old  leather  bottles  in 
which  lie  stored  the  varied  wines  of  the  human  spirit, 
ought  to  be  labor  and  gladness  enough  for  the  soul 
of  a  man.  It  is  a  poor  substitute  for  food  that  helps 
us  to  forget  the  want  of  it.  But  how  can  we  wonder 
when  he  would  have  no  father,  and  claimed  the 
black  Negation,  the  grandmother  of  Chaos,  as  his 
mother!  Yet  was  it  the  presence  all  the  time  of  that 
father  he  refused  that  made  it  possible  for  him  to 
drink  the  water  of  any  poorest  little  well  of  salvation 
that  sprang  in  the  field  of  his  life  ;  and  such  a  well 
was  his  work  among  books. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


THE    BEECH-TREE. 


He  went  to  bed,  and  after  a  dreamless  night,  rose 
to  find  the  world  overflowed  with  bliss.  The  sun 
was  at  his  best,  and  every  water-drop  on  the  grass 
was  shining  all  the  colors  of  the  rainbow.  Surely 
the  gems  that  are  dug  from  the  earth  have  their  pro- 
totype in  the  dew-drops  that  lie  on  its  surface.  One 
might  in  a  moment  of  sweet  maundering  imagine 
Nature  hiding  those  sunless  dew-drops  of  the  mines 
in  the  darkness  of  a  sweet  sorrow  that  the  youth  of 
the  morning  must  be  so  evanescent. 

The  whole  world  lay  before  Richard  his  inher- 
itance. The  sunlight  gave  it  him,  a  gift  from  the 
height  of  his  heaven.  What  was  it  to  Richard  that 
the  park,  its  trees,  its  grass,  its  dew-drops,  its  cattle, 
its  shadows,  belonged  to  Sir  Wilton  !  He  never  even 
thought  of  the  fact  !  He  felt  them  his  own  !  Was 
the  soft,  clear,  fresh,  damp  air,  with  all  the  unreach- 
able soul  of  it,  not  his,  because  it  was  Sir  Wilton's  ? 

The  highest  property,  as  Dante  tells  us,  increases 
to  each  by  the  sharing  of  it  with  others.  But  the 
common  mind  does  not  care  for  such  property. 
Was  not  the  blue,  uplifted,  hoping  sky,  that  spoke 
to  the  sky  inside  Richard — was  not  that  Sir  Wilton's  ? 
Yes,  indeed  ;  for  were  it  not  Sir  Wilton's,  it  could 
not  be  Richard's.  But  Sir  Wilton  did  not  claim  it, 
because  he  did  not  care  for  it,  heard  no  sound  of  the 


THE    BEECH-TREE.  121 

speech  it  uttered,  Happy  would  it  have  been  for 
Sir  Wilton,  that  anything  he  called  his,  was  his  as 
it  was  Richard's  !  He  could  not  prevent  Richard 
from  possessing  Mortgrange  in  a  way  he  himself 
did  not  and  would  not  possess  it.  But  neither  yet 
were  they  Richard's  in  the  full  eternal  way.  Na- 
ture was  a  noble  lady  whose  long  visit  made  him 
glad;  she  was  not  yet  at  her  own  home  in  his  house. 
There  were  things  in  the  world  that  might  come  in 
and  drive  her  out.  Say  rather,  there  was  yet  no 
chamber  in  that  house  in  which  she  could  take  up 
her  dwelling  all  night. 

The  setting  sun  had  made  Richard  sad  ;  his  resur- 
rection made  him  blessed  !  He  dressed  in  haste,  and 
went  to  find  his  way  from  the  house. 

Arrived  in  the  park,  and  walking  in  cool  delight 
on  the  wet  grass,  he  began  to  think  about  the  men 
and  the  races  whom  the  greed  of  other  men  and  races 
had  pinched  and  shouldered  and  squeezed  from  the 
world.  He  thought  of  the  men  who,  by  prevent- 
ing others  and  refusing  to  let  them  share,  imagine  to 
increase  the  length  and  breadth  and  depth  of  their 
own  possessing  ;  and  thus  by  degrees  he  fell  into  a 
retributive  mood.  What  should,  what  could,  what 
would  be  done  with  such  men  ? 

"As  they  refuse  their  neighbors  ground  to  stand 
upon,"  he  said  to  himself,  "as  the  very  cubic  space 
they  cannot  disrobe  them  of  they  begrudge  them  be- 
cause it  measures  from  what  they  count  their  land. 
I  should  like  to  know  how  high  their  possession 
goes  1  Is  there  any  law  that  lays  that  down  ?  To 
what  point  above  him  can  the  landowner  complain 
.  of  trespass  in  the  gliding  or  hovering  balloon  ? 
When  hawking  comes  in  again,  as  it  will  one  day, 


THERE    AND    BACK. 


by  the  law  of  revival,  at  what  height  will  another 
man's  falcon  be  an  intruder  on  him  who  stands  gaz- 
ing up  from  his  corn  ?  Were  I  a  power  in  the  uni- 
verse, I  would  cram  the  air  over  the  heads  of  such 
incarnate  greeds  with  clouds  of  souls  !  The  sun 
should  reach  them  only  through  the  vapors  of  other 
life  than  theirs,  inimical  to  them  because  of  their  sel- 
fishness, I  would  set  the  dead  burrowing  beneath 
them,  so  that  the  land  they  boast  should  heave  under 
their  feet  with  the  writhing  of  the  bodies  they  drove 
from  the  surface  into  the  deeps.  They  should  have 
but  a  carpet,  wallowing  in  the  waves  of  a  continuous 
live  earthquake.  I  know  I  am  thinking  like  a  fool  ; 
but  surely  at  least  there  ought  to  be  some  set  season 
for  Truth  and  Justice  to  return  to  the  forsaken  earth  ! 
Are  we  forever  to  bear  without  hope  the  presence 
of  the  cruel,  the  vulgar  self-souled,  the  neighbor- 
crushing  rich  ?  Are  the  wicked  the  favorites  of  Na- 
ture, that  they  flourish  like  a  green  bay-tree  ?  Doubt- 
less it  is  right  to  forgive — but  how  to  be  able  ?  No- 
body has  ever  done  me  any  harm  yet ;  I  have  noth- 
ing to  complain  of;  it  cannot  be  revenge  in  me  that 
longs  for  something,  call  it  God,  or  Nature,  or  Jus- 
tice, that  will  repay  ! — God  it  cannot  be;  but  some- 
thing sure  there  must  be  to  which  vengeance  be- 
longs !  " 

He  might  have  gone  further  in  his  thinking,  and 
perhaps  come  to  ask  what  satisfaction  there  could 
be  in  any  vengeance,  so  long  as  the  evil-doer  re- 
mained unhumbled  by  the  perception  and  the  shame 
of  his  doing,  was  neither  sorry  for  it  nor  turned  away 
from  it — in  a'word,  did  not  repent  ;  but  there  came 
an  interruption. 

He  was  walking  slowly  along,  unheeding  where  he 


THE    BEECH-TREE.  I  23 


went,  when  he  heard  a  sound  that  made  him  look 
up.  Then  he  saw  that  he  was  under  a  great  beech, 
and  the  sound  seemed  to  come  from  somewhere  in 
the  top  of  it — a  sound  like  the  pleased  cooing  of  a 
dove.  He  looked  hard  into  the  branches  and  their 
wilderness  of  fresh  leaves,  but  could  descry  nothing. 
Then  came  a  little  laugh,  and  with  a  preparatory 
rustling  and  rustling  in  its  passage,  a  book — a  small 
folio — fell  plump  at  his  feet. 

"Will  you  please  put  it  in  the  library!"  said  a 
voice  he  had  heard  before — long  before,  it  seemed — ■ 
but  had  not  forgotten. 

"I  will  bring  it  to  you — at  least  I  would,  if  I  could 
see  where  you  are  !  "  answered  Richard,  gazing  with 
yet  keener  search  into  the  thick  mass  of  leaf-cloud 
over  his  head. 

"No,  no;  I  don't  want  more  of  it.  I  can't  see 
you,  and  don't  know  who  you  are  ;  but  please  take 
the  book,  and  lay  it  on  the  middle  table  in  the 
library.  It  may  be  hurt,  and  I  don't  want  to  come 
down  just  yet." 

"Very  well,  miss!"  answered  Richard;  "I  will. 
— The  fall  from  such  a  height,  and  through  all  those 
branches,  must  have  done  it  quite  enough  harm 
already  !  " 

"  Oh  ! — I  never  thought  of  that !  "  said  the  voice. 

Richard  took  up  the  book,  and  walked  away  with 
it,  pondering. 

"Is  it  possible,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  that  the  little 
lady,  whose  big  mare  I  shod  last  year,  is  up  there  in 
that  tree.?  It  must  be  her  voice  ! — I  cannot,  surely, 
be  mistaken  ! — But  how  on  earth,  or  rather  how  in 
heaven,  did  she  get  up?  Yet  why  shouldn't  she 
climb  as  well  as  any  other.?     It  must  be  as  easy  as 


24  THERE    AND    BACK. 


riding  that  huge  mare.  And  then  she's  not  like  other 
ladies  !  She  snot  of  the  ordinary  breed  of  this  planet ! 
Which  of  them  would  have  spoken  to  a  blacksmith- 
lad  as  she  spoke  to  me  !  Who  but  herself  would  have 
tied  up  a  scratch  in  a  working  man's  hand  !  " 

He  was  right  so  far  :  she  could  climb  as  no  other 
in  that  county,  no  other,  perhaps,  in  England,  man 
or  boy  or  girl,  could  climb.  She  was  like  a  squirrel 
at  climbing ;  and  for  the  last  few  mornings,  the 
weather  having  grown  decidedly  summery,  had 
gone  before  breakfast  to  say  her  prayers  in  that 
tree. 

Richard  carried  the  book  to  the  house — it  was 
Pope's  Letters — found  his  way  to  the  library,  and  laid 
it  where  she  said,  hoping  she  would  come  to  seek 
it,  and  that  he  might  then  be  present.  Would  she 
recognize  the  fellow  that  shod  her  mare  ?  he  won- 
dered. 

He  could  do  nothing  till  he  knew  where  he  was  to 
work,  and  therefore,  after  breakfast  in  the  servants' 
hall,  he  asked  one  of  the  men  to  let  him  know  when 
Mr.  Lestrange  would  see  him,  and  went  to  his 
room. 

Richard  had  not  yet  become  aware  of  any  moral 
pressure.  The  duty  of  aspiration  or  self-conquest 
had  never  in  any  shape  been  forced  upon  him,  and 
his  conscience  had  not  made  him  acquainted  with  it. 
What  is  called  a  good  conscience  is  often  but  a  dull 
one  that  gives  no  trouble  when  it  ought  to  bark 
loudest ;  but  Richard's  was  not  of  that  sort,  and  yet 
was  very  much  at  ease.  I  may  say  for  him  that  he 
had  done  nothing  he  knew  to  be  bad  at  the  moment  ; 
and  very  little  that  he  had  to  be  ashamed  of  after- 
w^ards,   either  at  school  or  since  he  left  it.     Partly 


THE    BEECH-TREE.  I  25 


through  the  care  of  his  parents,  he  had  never  got 
into  what  is  called  bad  company,  had  formed  no  un- 
desirable intimacies.  He  had  a  natural  cleanliness, 
a  natural  sense  of  the  becoming,  which  did  much  to 
keep  him  from  evil  :  he  could  not  consent  to  regard 
himself  with  disgust,  and  he  would  have  been  easily 
disgusted  with  himself.  If  he  did  not,  as  I  have 
indicated,  set  himself  with  any  conscious  effort  to  rise 
above  himself,  he  did  do  something  against  sinking 
below  himself.  The  books  he  chose  were  almost  all 
of  the  better  sort.  He  had  instinctively  laid  aside 
some  in  which  he  recognized  a  degrading  influence. 

But  here  let  me  remark  that  it  depends  partly  on 
the  degree  of  a  man's  moral  development,  whether 
this  or  that  book  will  be  to  him  degrading  or  other- 
wise. A  book  which  one  man  ought  to  scorn  may 
be  of  elevating  tendency  to  another,  because  it  is  a 
little  above  his  present  moral  condition.  A  book 
which  to  enjoy  would  harm  a  more  delicate  mind, 
ma.Y perhaps  benefit  the  nature  that  would  have  chosen 
a  coarser  book  still.  We  cannot  determine  the  opera- 
tion of  energies,  when  we  do  not  know  on  what 
moral  level  they  are  at  work.  The  dead  may  be  left 
to  bury  their  dead  ;  it  would  be  sad  to  see  an  angel 
haunting  a  charnel-house. 

I  have  been  led  into  this  digression  through  the 
desire  to  give  an  approximate  idea  of  the  good,  rather 
vacant,  unselfish,  and  yet  self-contented,  if  not  self- 
satisfied  condition  of  Richard's  being. 

He  got  out  a  manuscript-book  in  which  he  was  in 
the  habit  of  setting  down  whatever  came  to  him, 
and  wrote  for  some  time,  happily  making  more  than 
one  spot  of  ink  on  the  toilet-cover,  which  served  to 
open  the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Locke  to  her  mistake  in  think- 


126  THERE    AND    BACK. 


ing-  a  workman  would  not  want  a  writing-table  ;  so 
that  before  the  next  evening  he  found  in  his  chamber 
everything  comfortable  for  writing,  as  \vell  as  for 
sleeping  and  dressing. 

He  was  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  a  servant 
with  the  message  that  Mr.  Lestrange  was  in  the  morn- 
ing-room, and  wished  to  see  him. 

He  followed  the  man  and  found  Lestrange  at  the 
breakfast-table,  with  a  tall  young  woman,  very  ordi- 
nary-looking, except  for  her  large  soft,  dark  eyes,  and 
the  little  lady  whose  mare  he  had  shod,  and  whose 
voice  he  had  heard  that  morning  heard  from  the 
tree-top. 

He  advanced  half-way  to  the  table,  and  stood. 

"Ah,  there  you  are!  "  said  Lestrange,  glancing  up, 
and  immediately  reverting  to  his  plate.  "  We've  got 
to  set  to  work,  haven't  we  ?  " 

He  had,  I  presume,  found  the  ladies  not  unin- 
terested in  the  restoration  that  was  about  to  be 
initiated,  and  had  therefore  sent  for  Richard  while 
breakfast  was  going  on. 

The  fledgling  baronet,  except  for  his  too  favorable 
opinion  of  himself,  in  which  he  was  unlike  only  a 
very  few,  and  an  amount  of  assumption  not  small 
toward  his  supposed  inferiors,  was  not  a  disagreeable 
human,  and  now  spoke  pleasantly. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  answered  Richard.  "Shall  I  wait  out- 
side until  you  have  done  breakfast  ?  " 

He  feared  the  servant  might  have  make  a  mistake. 

"  I  sent  for  you,"  replied  Lestrange,  curtly. 

"Very  well,  sir.  I  have  not  yet  learned  whether 
the  tools  I  sent  on  have  been  delivered,  but  there 
will  be  plenty  to  do  in  the  way  of  preparation. — May 
I  ask  if  you  have  settled  where  I  am  to  work,  sir? " 


THE    BEECH-TREE.  I  2/ 


"Ah,  I  had  not  thought  of  that !  " 

"  It  seems  to  ijie,  sir,  that  the  Hbrary  itself  would 
suit  best  ;  that  is,  if  I  might  have  a  good-sized  kitchen- 
table  in  it,  and  roll  up  half  the  carpet.  When  I  had 
to  beat  a  book  I  could  take  it  into  the  passage,  or 
just  outside  the  window.  Nothing  else  would  make 
any  dust." 

Lestrange  had  been  thinking  how  to  have  the  binder 
under  his  eye,  and  yet  not  seem  to  watch  a  fellow  so 
much  above  hiS  notion  of  a  working  man  ;  the  family 
made  very  little  use  of  the  library,  and  Richard's  pro- 
posal seemed  just  the  thing.  He  would  be  sure  to 
stick  to  his  work  where  some  one  might  any  moment 
be  coming  in  ! 

"I  don't  see  any  difficulty,"  he  answered. 

"I  should  want  a  little  fire  for  my  glue-pot  and 
polishing-iron.  There  will  be  gilding  and  lettering 
too,  thdugh  I  hope  not  much — title-pieces  to  replace, 
and  a  touch  here  and  there  to  give  to  the  tooling  ! 
No  man  with  any  reverence  in  him  would  meddle 
much  with  such  delicate,  lovely  old  things  as  many 
of  these  gildings!  He  would  not  dare  more  than 
just  touch  them  !  " 

The  little  lady  sat  eating  her  toast,  but  losing  no 
word  that  was  said.  She  knew  from  his  voice  the 
young  man  was  the  same  to  whom  she  had  called 
out  of  the  beech-tree  ;  but  now  she  seemed  to  recog- 
nize him  as  the  blacksmith  whose  hand  she  had 
bound  up  :  what  could  a  blacksmith  do  in  a  library  ? 
She  was  puzzled. 

Richard  noted  that  she  was  dressed  in  some  green 
stuff,  which  perhaps  was  the  cause  of  his  having 
been  unable  to  discover  her  in  the  tree  !  Her  great 
eyes — they  were  bigger  than  those  of  the  tall  lady — 


THERE    AND    BACK. 


every  now  and  then  looked  up  at  him  with  a  renewed 
question,  to  which  they  seemed  to  find  no  answer. 
They  were  big-  blue  eyes — very  dark  for  blue,  and 
rather  too  round  for  perfection  ;  but  their  roundness 
was  at  one  Mnth  the  prevailing  expression  of  her  face, 
which  was  innocent  daring,  inquiry,  and  confidence. 
The  paleness  of  it  was  a  healthy  paleness,  with  just  an 
inclination  to  freckle.  Her  dark,  half-scorched-look- 
ing hair  was  so  abundant  and  rebellious,  that  it  had 
to  be  all  over  compelled  with  gold  pins.  Its  manip- 
ulation had  neither  beginning,  middle  nor  end. 
She  ate  daintily  enough,  but  as  if  she  meant  to  have 
a  breakfast  that  should  last  her  till  luncheon — when 
plainly  the  active  little  furnace  of  her  life  would  want 
fresh  fuel.  But  it  was  of  another  kind  of  fuel  she  was 
thinking  now.  In  the  man  who  stood  there,  so  in- 
dependent, yet  so  free  from  self-assertion,  she  saw  a 
prospect  of  learning  something.  She  was. hungry 
after  knowing,  but,  though  fond  of  reading,  was  very 
ignorant  of  books.  She  thought  like  a  poet,  but  had 
never  read  a  real  poem.  She  was  full  of  imagination, 
but  very  imperfectly  knew  what  the  word  meant. 
She  had  never  in  her  life  read  a  work  of  genuine 
imagination — not  even  Undine,  not  even  The  Ugly 
Duckling, 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE  LIBRARY. 

After  some  talk,  it  was  settled  that  Richard  should 
work  in  the  large  oriel  of  the  library.  Mrs.  Locke 
was  called,  and  the  necessary  orders  were  given. 
Employer  and  workman  were  both  anxious,  the  one 
to  see,  the  other  to  make  a  commencement.  In  a 
few  minutes  Richard  had  looked  out  as  many  of  the 
books  in  most  need  of  attention  as  would  keep  him, 
turning  from  the  one  to  the  other,  as  each  required 
time  in  the  press  or  to  dry,  thoroughly  employed. 

"There  is  a  volume  here  I  should  like  to  know 
your  mind  about,  sir,"  he  said,  after  looking  at  one 
of  them  a  moment  or  two,  " — the  first  collected  edi- 
tion of  Spenser's  works,  actually  bound  up  with  Sir 
John  Harrington's  translation  of  Ariosto  !  Kit  were 
a  good,  or  even  an  old  binding,  I  should  have  said 
nothing." 

"It  don't  seem  in  a  bad  way." 

"No,  but  the  one  book  is  so  unworthy  of  the 
other  !  " 

"What  would  you  propose.?  " 

"I  would  separate  them  ;  put  the  Spenser  in  plain 
calf,  and  make  the  present  cover,  with  a  new  back, 
do  for  Sir  John  ;  it  is  a  good  enough  coat  for  him." 

"Very  well.     Do  as  you  think  best." 

"I  should  like  to  send  them  both  to  my  father." 

"But  you  have  undertaken  everything  !  " 
9 


130  THERE    AND    BACK. 


"  I  am  quite  ready,  sir  ;  but  in  that  case  these  niust 
wait.  My  faculty  is  best  laid  out  on  mending,  and 
I  must  do  some  good  work  in  that  first.  1  don't 
know  that  I'm  quite  up  to  my  father  in  binding.  I 
mentioned  him  because  if  he  were  to  help  me  with 
those  that  must  be  bound,  I  should  have  the  more 
time  for  what  often  takes  longer.  You  may  trust  my 
father,  sir;  he  does  not  want  to  make  a  fortune." 

"  I  will  try  him  then,"  answered  the  cautious  heir. 
"At  least  I  will  send  him  the  books,  and  learn  what 
he  would  charge." 

He  had  more  of  the  ordinary  tradesman  in  him 
than  Richard  and  his  uncle  put  together. 

"I  will  put  the  prices  on  them,  and  engage  that 
my  father  will  charge  no  more,"  said  Richard. 

Lestrange  was  content  on  hearing  them,  and  Rich- 
ard set  to  work  with  the  other  volumes. 

The  bookbinder,  always  busy,  soon  began  to  be 
respected  in  the  house,  and  before  long  had  gained 
several  indulgences — among  the  rest,  to  have  a  table 
for  himself  in  the  library,  at  which,  when  work-hours 
were  over,  he  might  read  or  write  when  he  pleased. 
As  his  labors  went  on,  the  bookscape  began  to  revive, 
and  continued  slowly  putting  on  an  autumnal  radi- 
ance of  light  and  color.  Dingy  and  broken  backs 
gradually  disappeared.  Pamphlets  and  magazines, 
such  as,  from  knowledge  or  inquiry,  Richard  thought 
worth  the  expense,  were  sent  off  to  his  father  to  be 
bound.  But  I  must  continue  my  narrative  from  a 
point  long  before  his  work  began  to  make  much  of 
a  show. 

A  few  valuable  books,  much  injured  by  time  and 
rough  usage, — among  the  rest  a  quarto  of  The  Merry 
Wives — he  had  pulled  apart,  and  was  treating   with 


THE    LIBRARY. 


131 


certain  solutions,  in  preparation  for  binding  them, 
when  Lestrange  came  in  one  morning,  accompanied 
by  the  curate  of  the  parish.  His  eyes  fell  on  a  loose 
title-page  which  he  happened  to  know. 

"What  on  earth  are  you  doing  ?  "  he  cried.  "  You 
will  destroy  that  book  !  By  Jove  ! — You  little  know 
what  you're  about  !  " 

"I  do  know  what  I  am  about,  sir.  I  shall  do  the 
book  nothing  but  good,"  answered  Richard.  "It 
could  not  have  lasted  many  years  without  what  I  "am 
doing." 

"Leave  it  alone,"  said  Lestrange.  "I  must  ask 
some  one.     The  treatment  is  too  dangerous." 

"Excuse  me,  sir;  the  treatment  is  by  no  means 
dangerous.  After  this  bath,  I  shall  take  it  through 
one  of  thin  size,  to  help  the  paper  to  hold  together. 
The  book  has  suffered  much,  both  from  damp  and 
insects." 

"No  matter!  ''  answered  Lestrange,  imperiously. 
"  I  will  not  have  you  meddle  further  with  that 
volume. — Would  you  believe  it.  Hardy,"  he  went  on 
turning  to  the  curate,  "it  is  that  translation  of  Ovid 
he  is  experimenting  upon  !  " 

,"l  beg  your  pardon,  I   am    not   experimenting," 
said  Richard. 

"  I  hardly  think  it  is  such  a  very  rare  book  !"'  replied 
the  curate.      "  I  believe  it  could  be  replaced  !  " 

"Ah,  you  don't  know,  I  see  !  I  thought  I  had 
shown  you  !  "  returned  Lestrange  excitedly.  "  Look 
there  1  " 

He  pointed  to  the  title-page,  which  was  lying  on 
the  table. 

"  I  see  !  "  said  Hardy.  "  It  is  a  first  edition — in 
black  letter — of  Arthur  Goldinsr's  Ovid  1  " 


132  THERE    AND    BACK. 


"But  you  don't  look!  Why  don't  you  look? 
Have  you  no  eyes  for  that  faded  ink  just  under  the 
title?" 

"Why!  What's  this?  GuL  Shaksper  J—ls  it 
possible  !  " 

"You  find  it  hard  to  believe  your  eyes,  and  well 
you  may  ! — There,  Tuke  !  I  told  you  you  didn't 
know  what  you  were  doing  !  " 

"I  always  examine  the  title-page  of  a  book," 
answered  Richard.  "  You  must  allow  me  to  do  as  I 
see  fit,  Mr.  Lestrange,  or  I  give  up  the  job." 

"  You  undertook  to  work  for  a  year,   if  required  !  " 

"Idid  not  undertake  to  receive  orders  as  to  my 
mode  of  working.  I  care  for  books  far  too  much  for 
that.  Besides,  I  have  my  character  to  see  to  !  I 
warn  you  that  if  I  do  not  go  on  with  that  volume,  it 
will  be  ruined.  " 

"You  don't  consider  the  money  you  risk  ! — That 
name  makes  the  book  worth  hundreds  at  least." 

"  It  is  the  greatest  of  names  !  Only  that  name  was 
not  written  by  him  who  owned  it  !  " 

"What  do  you  know  about  it!"  said  Lestrange, 
rudely. 

"Are  you  an  expert  ?  "  asked  the  curate. 

"By  no  means,"  answered  Richard  ;  "but  I  have 
been  a  good  deal  with  old  books,  and  my  impression 
is  you  have  got  there  one  of  the  Ireland  forgeries  !  " 

"I  believe  it  to  be  quite  genuine!"  said  Les- 
trange. 

"If  it  be,  there  is  the  more  reason  in  what  I  am 
doing,  sir." 

Lestrange  turned  abruptly  to  the  curate,  saying — 

"Come  along,  Hardy!  I  can't  bear  to  see  the 
butchery  !  " 


THE    LIBRARY.  1 33 

"Depend  on  it,"  returned  the  curate  laughing, 
"the  surgeon  knows  his  knife! — You  know  what 
you're  about,  don't  you,  Mr.  Tuke  ? " 

"If  I  did  not,  sir,  I  wouldn't  meddle  with  a  book 
like  that,  forgery  or  no  forgery  !  You  should  see  the 
quantities  of  old  print  I've  destroyed  in  learning  how 
to  save  such  books  ! — This  is  no  vile  body  to  exper- 
iment upon  !  " 

"Mr.  Lestrange,  you  may  trust  that  man!"  said 
the  curate. 


CHAPTER   XV. 

BARBARA    W\'LDER. 

It  was  the  height  of  the  season,  and  Sir  Wilton  and 
Lady  Ann  were  in  London — I  cannot  say  enjoying 
themselves,  for  I  doubt  if  either  of  them  ever  enjoyed 
self,  or  anything  else.  Their  daughters  were  at  home, 
in  the  care  of  the  governess.  Theodora  had  been 
out  a  year  or  two,  but  preferred  Mortgrange  to 
London.  She  was  one  of  the  few  girls — perhaps  not 
very  few — who  imagine  themselves  uglier  than  they 
are.  Miss  Malliver,  the  governess,  was  a  lady  of 
uncertain  age,  for  whom  Lady  Ann  had  an  uncertain 
liking.  The  younger  girl  her  pupil,  was  named 
Victoria,  but  commonly  called  Vic,  and  not  uncom- 
monly Vixen.  The  younger  boy  was  at  school, 
where  they  were  constantly  threatening  to  send  him 
home.     He  had  been  already  dismissed  from  Eton. 

In  their  elder  son,  Arthur,  his  parents  h-ad  as  per- 
fect a  confidence  as  such  parents  could  have  in  any 
son. 

The  little  lady  that  rode  the  great  mare,  and  s»it  in 
the  beech-tree,  was  at  present  their  guest — as  she 
often  was,  in  a  fluctuating  or  intermittent  fashion. 
She  lived  in  the  neighborhood,  but  was  more  at 
INIortgrange  than  at  home  ;  one  consequence  of  which 
was,  that,  as  would-be-clever  Miss  Malliver  phrased 
it,  the  house  was  very  much  B.  Wyldered.  Nor  was 
that  the  first  house  the  little  lady  had  bewildered,  for 
she  was  indeed  an  importation  from    a  new  colony 


BARBARA    WYLDER. 


^35 


rather  startling  to  sedate  old  Eng-land.  Her  father,  a 
younger  son,  had  unexpectedly  succeeded  to  the 
family-property,  a  few  miles  from  Mortgrange.  He 
was  supposed  to  have  made  a  fortiuie  in  New  Zealand, 
where  Barbara  was  born  and  brought  up.  They  had 
been  home  nearly  two  years,  and  she  was  almost 
eighteen.  Absurd  rumors  were  abroad  concerning 
their  wealth,  but  there  were  no  great  signs  of  wealth 
about  the  place.  Wylder  Hall  was  kept  up,  and  its 
life  went  on  in  good  style,  it  is  true,  but  mainly 
because  the  old  servants  perpetuated  the  customs  of 
the  house. 

The  squire  was  said  to  have  shared  in  some  of  the 
roughest  phases  of  colonial  life.  Whether  he  was 
better  or  worse  for  falhng  in  love  with  the  money  of 
an  older  colonist,  and  marrying  his  daughter,  it  is 
certain  that,  for  a  time  at  least,  he  grew  a  shade  or 
two  more  respectable.  Far  from  being  a  woman  of 
refinement,  she  had  more  character  and  morestrength 
than  he,  and  brought  him,  not  indeed  into  the  high- 
ways of  wisdom,  but  into  certain  by-paths  of  prudence. 

Upon  his  return  to  his  native  country  they  were 
everywhere  received  ;  but  had  it  not  been  for  their 
reported  wealth,  I  doubt  if  the  ladies  of  the  county, 
after  some  experience  of  her  manners  and  speech, 
which  were  at  times  very  rough,  would  have  con- 
tinued to  call  on  Mrs.  Wylder. 

But  everybody  liked  Barbara  ;  and  nobody  could 
think  how  such  a  flower  should  have  come  of  two 
such  plants.  She  seemed  to  regard  every  one  as  of  her 
own  family.  People  were  her  property — hers  to  love  ! 
And  her  brain  was  as  active  as  her  heart,  and  con- 
stantly with  it.  She  wanted  to  know  what  people 
thought  and  felt  and  imagined  ;  what  everything  was  ; 


136  THERE    AND    BACK. 


how  a  thing  was  done,  and  how  it  ought  to  be  done. 
She  seemed  to  understand  what  the  animals  were 
thinking,  and  what  the  flowers  were  feeling.  She 
had  from  infancy  spent  the  greater  part  of  her  life, 
both  night  and  day,  in  the  open  air ;  and,  having  no 
companion,  had  sought  the  acquaintance  of  every  live 
thing  she  saw — often  to  the  disgust  of  her  mother, 
and  occasionally  to  the  annoyance  of  her  father.  She 
was  a  child  of  the  whole  world,  as  the  naiad  is  the 
child  of  the  river,  and  the  oread  of  the  mountain. 
She  could  sit  a  horse's  bare  back  even  better  than  a 
saddle,  could  guide  him  almost  as  well  with  a  halter 
as  with  a  bridle,  and  in  general  control  him  without 
either,  though  she  had  ridden  more  than  one  horse 
with  terrible  bit  and  spurs.  She  did  not  remember 
the  time  when  she  could  not  swim,  and  she  tried  her 
own  running  against  every  new  horse,  to  find  what 
he  could  do.  Some  highland  girl  might  perhaps  have 
beaten  her,  up  hill,  but  I  doubt  it.  She  was  so  small 
that  she  looked  fragile,  but  she  had  nerves  such  as 
few  men  can  boast,  and  muscles  like  steel.  It  never 
occurred  to  her  not  to  say  what  she  thought,  believed, 
or  felt ;  she  would  show  favor  or  dislike  with  equal 
readiness  ;  and  give  the  reason  for  anything  she  did 
as  willingly  as  do  the  thing.  She  was  a  special 
favorite  at  Mortgrange,  Not  only  did  she  bewitch 
the  hlase  man  of  the  world.  Sir  Wilton,  but  the  cold 
eye  of  his  lady  would  gleam  a  faint  gleam  at  the 
thought  of  her  dowry.  Her  father  "prospected"  a 
little  for  something  higher  than  a  mere  baronetcy,  but 
he  had  in  no  way  interfered.  Of  herself,  divine  little 
savage,  she  would  never  have  thought  of  love  until 
she  fell  in  love  :  a  flower  cannot  know  its  own  blos- 
som until  it  comes.     It  did  not  yet  interest  her,  and 


VRA    WYLDER.  I  37 


until  it  did,  certainly  marriage  never  would.  Thus 
was  she  healthier-minded  than  any  one  born  of 
society-parents,  and  brought  up  under  the  influences 
of  nurse-morality,  can  well  be.  When  she  came  to 
England  it  was  hard  to  teach  her  the  ways  of  the  so- 
called  civilized.  Servants  would  sometimes  be  out 
searching  for  her  after  midnight,  perhaps  to  find  her 
strayed  beyond  the  park,  out  upon  the  solitary  heath. 
She  knew  most  of  the  stars,  not  by  their  astronomical 
names  indeed,  but  by  names  she  had  herself  given 
them.  She  had  tales  of  her  own,  fashioned  in  part 
from  the  wild  myths  of  the  aborigines,  to  account  for 
the  special  relations  of  such  as  made  a  group.  She 
would  weave  the  travels  of  the  planets  into  the  steady 
history  of  the  motionless  stars.  Waning  and  waxing 
moons  had  a  special  and  strange  influence  upon  her. 
She  would  dart  out  of  doors  the  moment  she  saw  the 
new  moon,  and  give  a  wild  cry  of  joy  if  the  old  moon 
was  in  her  arms.  Any  moon  in  a  gusty  night,  with  a 
scud  of  torn  clouds,  would  wake  in  her  an  ecstasy. 
Her  old  nurse,  who  had  come  with  her — a  strange 
creature,  of  what  mingled  blood  no  one  knew — told 
of  her  that  she  was  sometimes  seized  with  such  a 
longing  for  the  ocean,  that  she  would  lie  for  hours 
ere  she  went  to  sleep,  moaning  with  the  very  moan 
of  its  pebble-margined  waves.  When  "  in  the  bush," 
she  would  upon  occasion  wander  about  from  morn- 
ing to  night.  No  trouble  able  to  keep  her  still  had 
ever  yet  laid  hold  of  her.  But  she  had  grown  neither 
coarse  nor  unfeeling  through  lack  of  human  inter- 
course. Nature  was  to  her  what  she  was  to  Words- 
worth's Lucy,  and  made  her  a  lady  of  her  own. 

As  to  what  is  commonly  called  education,  she  had 
not  had  the  best.     Since  goming  to  England,  she  had 


138  THERE    AND    BACK. 

had  governesses,  but  none  fit  for  the  office.  Not  merely- 
had  no  one  of  them  that  rare  gift,  the  teaching-genius 
— the  faculty  of  waking  hunger  and  thirst ;  that  would 
have  mattered  little,  for  Barbara  needed  no  such 
rousing;  she  was  eager  to  know,  and  yet  more  eager 
to  understand  ;  but  not  one  of  those  teachers  knew 
enough  to  answer  a  quarter  of  Barbara's  questions,  or 
was  even  capable  of  perceiving  that  those  she  could 
not  answer,  pointed  to  anything  wt>rth  knowing. 

Among  fashionable  girls,,  affecting  a  free  and  easy, 
or  even  rough  style,  Barbara  was  notable  for  a  sweet, 
unconscious,  graceful  daring,  never  for  even  a  play- 
ful rudeness.  Nothing  she  ever  did  or  said  or  at- 
tempted could  be  called  rough,  while  yet  she  would 
say  things  to  make  a  vulgar  duchess  stare.  Had  she 
been  affected,  she  would  have  drawn  fools  and  re- 
pelled men  ;  real,  she  charmed  alike  men  and  fools. 

She  had  read  few  books  worth  reading — had  read  a 
few  which  one  would  not  have  chosen  she  should  read, 
for  she  grasped  at  anything  a  passer-by  might  have 
left.  Of  books  properly  so  called,  she  knew  nothing, 
therefore  had  not  a  notion  which  to  read  now  she 
might  choose.  She  imagined  them  all  attractive — 
but  at  the  first  assay  turned  from  the  burlesque  with 
a  kind  of  loathing.  This  made  some  of  her  new 
acquaintance,  not  refined  enough  to  understand  the 
peculiarity,  as  it  seemed  to  them,  set  her  down  as 
stupid. 

As  to  religion,  she  had  never  been  taught  any. 
But  from  before  her  earliest  recollection  she  had  had 
the  feeling  of  a  Presence.  For  this  feeling  she  never 
thought  of  attempting  to  account,  neither  would  have 
recognized  it  as  what  I  have  called  it.  The  sky  over 
her  head  brought  it ;  a  sweep  of  the  earth  away  from 


BARBARA    WYLDER. 


139 


her  feet  would  bring  it ;  any  horizon  far  or  near 
called  it  up,  perhaps  most  keenly  of  all.  In  England 
she  often  sorely  missed  her  horizon,  and  in  cities 
was  even  unhappy  for  lack  of  one.  If  she  could 
have  crystallized,  and  then  formulated  her  feeling-, 
she  would  have  said  she  felt  lonely,  that  something 
or  somebody  had  gone  away.  Had  she  been  a  pagan, 
it  would  have  been  her  gods  that  had  forsaken  her. 
Without  a  horizon  she  felt  as  if  the  wind  had  forgot- 
ten her,  the  sky  did  not  know  her.  Often  indeed 
even  the  farthest  horizon  could  not  prevent  her  from 
feeling  that  she  had  come  to  a  dead  country  ;  that 
things  here  did  not  mean  anything  ;  that  the  life  was 
out  of  them.  Was  the  world  so  crowded  with  men 
and  their  works  as  to  shutout  from  her  the  Presence .? 
When  she  went  to  church,  nothing  received  her, 
nothing  came  near  her,  nothing  brought  her  any 
message.  Something  was  done,  she  supposed,  that 
ought  to  be  done— something  she  had  no  inclination 
to  dispute,  no  interest  in  questioning  :  a  certain  good 
power  called  God,  required  from  people,  in  return 
for  the  gift  of  existence,  the  attention  of  going  to 
church  ;  therefore  she  went  sometimes.  She  had  no 
idea  of  ever  having  done  wrong,  no  feeling  that  God 
was  pleased  or  displeased  with  her,  or  had  any  oc- 
casion to  be  either.  She  did  not  know  that  it  was 
God  that  came  near  her  in  her  horse,  in  her  dog,  in 
the  people  about  her  who  so  often  disappointed  her. 
He  came  nearer  in  a  thunderstorm,  a  moonlit  night, 
a  sweet  wind — anything  that  woke  the  sense  of  the 
old  freedom  of  her  childhood.  She  felt  the  presence 
then,  but  never  knew  it  a  presence. 

Neither  did  she  know  that  there  was  a  place  where 
the  very  essence  of  that  whose   loss  made  her  sad 


140  THERE    AND    BACK, 

was  always  waiting  her — a  place  called  in  a  certain 
old  book  "thy  closet."  She  did  not  know  that  there 
opened  the  one  horizon — infinitely  far,  yet  near  as 
her  own  heart.  But  he  is  there  for  them  that  seek 
him,  not  for  those  who  do  not  look  for  him.  Till 
they  do,  all  he  can  do  is  to  make  them  feel  the  want 
of  him.  Barbara  had  not  begun  to  seek  him.  She 
did  not  know  there  was  anybody  to  seek  :  she  only 
missed  him  without  knowing  what  she  missed.  The 
blind,  almost  meaningless  reverence  for  the  name  of 
God,  which  somehow  she  learned  at  church,  had  not 
led  her  in  any  way  to  associate  him  with  her  sense 
of  loss  and  need. 

Her  father's  desire  was  to  see  her  so  married  as  to 
raise  his  influence  in  the  county.  He  was  proud  of 
her — selfishly  proud.  Was  she  not  his  ?  Was  he 
not  "  the  author  of  her  being.?  "  If  he  did  not  quite 
imagine  he  had  created  her,  he  certainly  never 
thought  of  any  one  but  himself  as  having  to  do  with 
her  existence.  All  the  credit  in  it  was  his  !  He 
forgot  even  what  share  her  mother  might  claim ;  not 
to  mention  what  in  her  might  belong  to  the  Sum  of 
Things,  the  insensate  Pan.  A  self-glorious  man  is 
the  biggest  fool  in  the  world. 

Her  mother,  too,  was  proud  of  her — loved  her  in- 
deed after  a  careless  fashion — was  even  in  a  sort 
obliged  to  her  for  having  come  to  her.  But  she  did 
not  care  for  her  enough  to  interfere  Avith  her.  Not- 
withstanding the  mother's  coarseness,  her  outbursts 
of  temper,  her  intolerance  of  opposition,  she  and  her 
daughter  had  never  yet  come  into  collision.  The 
reason  did  not  entirely  lie  in  the  sweetness  of  the 
daughter,  but  partly  in  the  fact  that  the  mother  had 


BARBARA    WYI.DER.  I4I 

two  children   besides,   one  of  whom  she   loved  far 
more,  and  the  other  far  less. 

Barbara  had  no  pride.  She  spoke  in  the  same  tone 
to  lord  and  tradesman.  She  had  been  the  champion 
of  the  blacks  in  her  own  country,  and  in  England 
looked  lovingly  on  the  gypsies  in  their  little  tents  on 
the  windy  downs. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

BARBARA    AND    RICHARD. 

Hardly  had  Lestrange  left  the  room,  when  Barbara 
entered,  noiseless  as  a  moth,  which  creature  she 
somehow  resembled  at  times  :  one  observant  friend 
came  to  see  that  she  resembled  all  swift,  gay,  and 
gentle  creatures  in  turn.  She  was  in  the  same  green 
dress  which  had  favored  her  concealment  in  the 
beech,  and  in  which  Richard  had  seen  her  afterward 
at  the  breakfast-table,  but  of  which  he  had  not  since 
caught  a  glimmer.  Her  blue  eyes — at  times  they 
seemed  black,  but  they  were  blue — settled  upon 
Richard  the  moment  she  entered,  and  resting  on  him 
seemed  to  lead  her  up  to  the  table  where  he  was  at 
work. 

"  What  have  you  done  to  make  Arthur  so  angry  ?  " 
she  said,  her  manner  as  if  they  had  known  each 
other  all  their  lives. 

"  What  I  am  doing  now,  miss — making  this  book 
last  a  hundred  years  longer." 

"  Why  should  you,  if  he  doesn't  want  you  to  do  it? 
The  book  is  his  !  " 

"  He  will  be  pleased  enough  by  and  by.  It's  only 
that  he  thinks  I  can't,  and  is  afraid  I  shall  ruin  it. " 

"  Hadn't  you  better  leave  it  then  ?  " 

"That  would  be  to  ruin  it.  I  have  gone  too  far 
for  that. " 

"Why  should  you  want  to  make  it  last  so  long.? 


ARBARA    AND    RICHARD. 


143 


They  are  always  printing  boolcs  over  again,  and  a 
new  book  is  much  nicer  than  an  old  one." 

"  So  some  people  think  ;  but  others  would  much 
rather  read  a  book  in  its  first  shape.  And  then  books 
get  so  changed  by  printers  and  editors,  that  it  is  ab- 
solutely necessary  to  have  copies  of  them  as  they 
were  at  first.  You  see  this  little  book,  miss  ?  It  don't 
look  much,  does  it  ?  " 

"  It  looks  miserable — and  so  dirty  !  " 

"  By  the  time  I  have  done  with  it,  it  will  be  worth 
fifty,  perhaps  a  hundred  pounds — I  don't  know 
exactly.  It  is  a  play  of  Shakspere's  as  published  in 
his  lifetime." 

"But  they  print  better  and  more  correctly  now, 
don't  they  ?  " 

"Yes  ;  but  as  I  said,  they  often  change  things." 

"  How  is  that  ?  " 

"Sometimes  they  will  change  a  word,  thinking  it 
ought  to  be  another  ;  sometimes  they  will  alter  a 
passage  because  they  do  not  understand  it,  putting  it 
all  wrong,  and  throwing  aside  a  great  meaning  for  a 
small  one  :  the  change  of  a  letter  may  alter  the  whole 
idea.  But  they  often  do  it  just  by  blundering.  Shall 
I  tell  you  an  instance  that  came  to  my  knowledge 
yesterday.?  It  is  but  a  trifle,  yet  is  worth  telling. — 
Of  course  you  know  the  Idylls  of  the  King  />" 

"No,  I  don't.     Why  do  you  say  'of  course'.?" 

"Because  I  thought  every  English  lady  read 
Tennyson." 

"  Ah,  but  I  was  born  in  New  Zealand  ! — Tell  me 
the  blunder,  though." 

"There  was  one  thing  in  The  Passi?7g  of  Arthur — 
that's  the  name  of  one  of  the  Idylls — which  I  never 
could  understand  : — how  Sir  Bedivere  could  throw  a 


144  THERE    AND    BACK. 


sword  with  both  hands,  and  make  it  go  in  the  way 
Tennyson  says  it  went." 

"But  who  was  Sir  Bedivere?" 

"You  must  read  the  poem  to  know  that,  miss. 
He  was  one  of  the  knights  of  King  Arthur's  Round 
Table." 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  King  Arthur." 

"  I  will  repeat  as  much  of  the  poem  as  is  necessary 
to  make  you  understand  about  the  misprint." 

"  Do — please." 

"  Then  quickly  rose  Sir  Bedivere,  and  ran, 
And,  leaping  down  the  ridges  lightly,  plunged 
Among  the  bulrush  beds,  and  clutch'd  the  sword, 
And  strongly  wheeled  and  threw  it.    The  great  brand 
Made  lightning  in  the  splendor  of  the  moon. 
And  flashing  round  and  round,  and  whirl'd  in  an  arch, 
Shot  like  a  streamer  of  the  northern  morn, 
Seen  where  the  moving  isles  of  winter  shock 
By  night,  with  noises  of  the  northern  sea. 
So  flashed  and  fell  the  brand  Excalibur. ' ' 

"What  does  thehrand  Excalibur — is  that  it? — what 
does  it  mean  }  They  put  a  brand  on  the  cattle  in 
the  bush." 

"  ^/-(2«(/ means  a  sword,  and  Excalibur  was  the 
name  of  this  sword.  They  seem  to  have  baptized 
their  swords  in  those  days  .?  " 

"There's  nothing  about  bolh  ha7ids!" 

"True  ;  that  comes  a  little  lower  down,  where  Sir 
Bedivere  tells  King  Arthur  what  he  has  done.  He 
says — 

Then  with  both  hands  I  (lung  him,  wheeling  him. 

— Now  do    you    tliink  anybody  could   do   that,  and 
make  it  go  flashing  round  and  round  in  an  arch  }  " 
Barbara  thought  for  a  moment,  then  said — 


BARBARA    AND    RICHARD.  I45 

"No,  certainly  not.  To  make  it  go  like  that,  you 
would  have  to  take  it  in  one  hand,  and  swing  it  round 
your  head — and  then  you  couldn't  without  a  string 
tied  to  it.  Or  perhaps  it  was  a  sabre,  and  he  was  so 
strong  he  could  send  it  like  a  boomerang  !  " 

"No  ;  it  was  a  straight,  big,  heavy  sword. — How 
then  do  you  think  Tennyson  came  to  describe  the 
thing  so  ?  " 

"Because  he  didn't  know  better— or  didn't  think 
enough  about  it," 

"There  is  more  than  that  in  it,  I  fancy  :  he  was 
misled  by  a  printer's  blunder,  I  suspect.  Some 
months  ago  I  found  the  passage  which  Tennyson 
seems  to  follow,  in  a  cheap  reprint  of  Sir  Thomas 
Malory's  History  of  King  Arthur — then  just  out,  and 
could  not  make  sense  of  it.  Yesterday  I  found  here 
this  long  little  book,  evidently  the  edition  from  which 
the  other  was  printed — and  printed  correctly  too.  In 
both  issues,  this  is  what  the  knight  is  made  to  say  : 

Then  Sir  Bedivere  departed,  and  went  to  the  sword,  and  Hghtly 
took  it  up  and  went  to  the  water's  side,  and  there  he  bound  the 
girdle  about  the  belts.  And  then  he  threw  the  sword  into  the 
water  as  far  as  he  might. ' ' 

"Well,"  said  Barbara,  "you  have  not  made  me 
any  wiser!  You  said  the  new  one  was  printed  cor- 
rectly from  that  old  one  !  " 

"  But  I  did  not  say  the  old  one,  as  you  call  it,  was 
itself  printed  correctly  from  the  much  older  one  ! 
Look  here  now,"  continued  Richard — and  mounting 
the  library-steps, he  took  down  another  small  volume, 
very  like  the  former,  " — here  is  another  edition,  of 
nearly  the  same  date  :  let  me  read  what  is  printed 
there  : — 

10 


146  THERE    AND    BACK. 


Then  Sir  Bedivere  departed,  and  went  to  the  sword,  and  lightly 
took  it  up,  and  went  to  the  water's  side,  and  there  he  bound  the 
girdle  about  the  hilt.  And  then  he  threw  the  sword  into  the 
water  as  far  as  he  might. 

"Now,  most  likely  the  copy  from  which  both  of 
these  editions  were  printed  had  the  word  hills,  for 
then  they  always  spoke  of  the  hills,  not  hill  of  a  sword; 
and  the  one  printer  modernized  it  into  hill,  and  the 
other,  perhaps  mistaking  the  dim  print,  for  hills 
printed  bells.  To  tie  the  girdle  about  the  hells  must 
simply  be  nonsense.  But  to  tie  the  girdle  to  the 
hilts  of  the  sword  would  just  give  the  knight  what 
you  said  he  would  want — something  long  to  swing 
it  round  his  head  with,  and  throw  it  like  a  stone,  and 
the  sling  with  it." 

"  I  understand. 

"  You  see  then  how  the  printer's  blunder,  which 
might  not  appear  to  matter  much,  has  come  to  mat- 
ter a  great  deal,  for  it  has,  it  seems  to  me,  caused  a 
fault-spot  in  the  loveliest  poem  !  " 

During  this  conversation  Richard's  work  had 
scarcely  relaxed ;  but  now  that  a  pause  came  it 
seemed  to  gather  diligence. 

"Why  do  you  spend  your  time  patching  up 
books  .''  "  said  Barbara. 

"  Because  they  are  worth  patching  up  ;  and  because 
I  earn  my  bread  by  patching  them." 

"But  you  seem  to  care  most  for  what  is  inside 
them  !  " 

"If  I  did  not,  I  should  never  have  taken  to  mend- 
ing, I  should  have  been  content  with  binding  them. 
New  covers  make  more  show,  and  are  much  easier 
put  on  than  patches." 

Another  pause  followed.  _^ 


BARBARA    AND    RICHARD.  1 47 

"  What  a  lot  you  know  !  "  said  Barbara. 

"Very  little,"  answered  Richard. 

"Then  where  am  I  ?"  she  returned. 

"Perhaps  ladies  don't  need  books  !  I  don't  know 
about  ladies. " 

"I  think  they  don't  care  about  them.  I  never 
hear  them  talk  as  you  do — as  if  books  were  their 
friends.  But  why  should  they.?  Books  are  only 
books  !  " 

"You  would  not  say  that  if  once  you  knew 
them  !  " 

"I  wish  you  would  make  me  know  them,  then  !  " 

"There  are  books,  and  you  can  read,  miss  !  " 

"Ah,  but  I  cant  read  as  you  read  !  I  understand 
that  much  !  I  was  born  where  there  ain't  any  books. 
I  can  shoot  and  fish  and  run  and  ride  and  swim,  and 
all  that  kind  of  thing.  I  never  had  .to  fight.  I  think 
I  could  shoe  a  horse,  if  any  one  would  give  me  a 
lesson  or  two." 

"I  will  with  pleasure,  miss." 

"Oh,  thank  you.  That  will  be  jolly!  But  how 
is  it  you  can  do  everything .?  " 

"  I  can  only  do  one  or  two  things.  I  can  shoe  a 
horse,  but  I  never  had  the  chance  of  riding  one." 

"Teach  me  to  shoe  Miss  Brown,  and  I  will  teach 
you  to  ride  her.      How  is  your  hand  .?  " 

"Quite  well,  thank  you." 

"I  would  rather  learn  to  read,  though — the  right 
way,  I  mean — the  way  that  makes  one  book  talk  to 
another." 

"That  would  be  better  than  shoeing  Miss  Brown  ; 
but  I  will  teach  you  both,  if  you  care  to  learn." 

"Thank  you  indeed  !     When  shall  we  begin  .?  " 

"When  you  please." 


I40  THERE    AND    BACK. 


"Now?" 

"  I  cannot  before  six  o'clock.  I  must  do  first  what 
I  am  paid  to  do  ! — What  kind  of  reading  do  you  like 
best  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  any  best.  I  used  to  read  the  papers 
to  papa,  but  now  1  don't  even  do  that.  1  hope  I 
never  may." 

"Where  do  you  live,  miss,  when  you're  at 
home  ? "  asked  Richard,  all  the  time  busy  with  the 
quarto. 

"Don't  you  know  ?  " 

"  I  don't  even  know  who  you  are,  miss  !  " 

"  I  am  Barbara  Wylder.  I  live  at  Wylder  Hall,  a 
few  miles  from  here. — I  don't  know  the  distance 
exactly,  because  1  always  g-o  across  country  :  that 
way  reminds  me  a  little  of  home.  My  father  was 
the  third  son,  and  never  expected  to  have  the  Hall. 
He  went  out  to  New  Zealand,  and  married  my  mother, 
and  made  a  fortune — at  least  people  say  so  :  he  never 
tells  me  anything-.  They  don't  care  much  for  me : 
I'm  not  a  boy  !  " 

"  Have  you  any  brothers  ?  " 

"  I  have  one,"  she  answered  sadly.  "  I  had  two, 
but  my  mother's  favorite  is  gone,  and  my  father's  is 
left,  and  mamma  can't  get  over  it.  They  were  twins, 
but  they  did  not  love  each  other.  How  could  they  ? 
My  father  and  mother  don't  love  each  other,  so  each 
loved  one  of  the  twins  and  hated  the  other." 

She  mentioned  the  dismal  fact  with  a  strange  non- 
chalance— as  if  the  thing  could  no  more  be  helped, 
and  needed  no  more  be  wondered  at,  than  a  rainy 
day.  Yet  the  sigh  she  gave  indicated  trouble  because 
of  it. 

Richard  held  his  peace,   rather  astonished,    both 


BARBARA    AND    RICHARD.  I49 

that  a  lady  should  talk  to  him  in  such  an  easy  way, 
and  that  she  should  tell  him  the  saddest  family 
secrets.  But  she  seemed  quite  unaware  of  doinj^ 
anything  strange,  and  after  a  brief  pause  resumed. 

"Yes,  they  had  long  been  tired  of  each  other,"  she 
said,  as  if  she  had  been  reflecting  anew  on  the  matter, 
"but  the  quarrelling  came  all  of  taking  sides  about 
the  twins  !  At  least  I  do  not  remember  any  of  it 
before  that.  They  were  both  fine  children,  and  they 
could  not  agree  which  was  the  finer,  but,  as  the  boys 
grew,  quarrelled  more  and  more  about  them.  They 
would  be  at  it  whole  evenings,  each  asserting  the 
merits  of  one  of  the  twins,  and  neither  listening  to  a 
word  about  the  other.  Each  was  determined  not  to 
be  convinced,  and  each  called  the  other  obstinate." 

"  Were  the  twins  older  or  younger  than  you, 
miss  ?  "  asked  Richard. 

"They  were  three  years  younger  than  me.  But 
when  I  look  back  it  seems  as  if  I  had  been  born  into 
the  bickering.  It  always  looked  as  natural  as  the 
grassy  slopes  outside  the  door.  I  thought  it  was  a 
consequence  of  twins,  that  all  parents  with  twins 
went  on  so.  When  my  father's  next  older  brother 
fell  ill,  and  there  seemed  a  possibility  of  his  suc- 
ceeding to  the  property,  the  thing  grew  worse  ;  now 
it  was  which  of  them  should  be  heir  to  it.  Waking 
in  the  middle  of  the  night,  I  would  hear  them  going 
on  at  it.  Then  which  was  the  elder,  no  one  could 
tell.  My  mother  had  again  and  again,  before  they 
began  to  quarrel,  confessed  she  did  not  know.  I 
don't  think  I  ever  saw  either  of  my  parents  do  a 
kindness  to  the  other,  or  to  the  child  favored  by  the 
other.  So  from  the  first  the  boys  understood  that 
they  were    enemies,   and  acted  accordingly.     Each 


THERE    AND    BACK. 


always  wanted  everything-  for  himself.  They  scowled 
at  each  other  long  before  they  could  talk.  Their 
games,  always  games  of  rivalry  and  strife,  would 
for  a  minute  or  two,  make  them  a  little  less  hostile, 
but  the  moment  the  game  ceased,  they  began  to 
scowl  again.  They  were  both  kind  to  me,  and  I 
loved  them  both,  and  naturally  tried  to  make  them 
love  each  other  ;  but  it  was  of  no  use.  It  seemed 
their  calling-  to  rival  and  obstruct  one  another.  When 
they  came  to  blows,  as  they  frequently  did,  my 
father  and  mother  would  almost  come  to  blows  too, 
each  at  once  taking  the  usual  side.  I  would  run 
away  then,  put  a  piece  of  bread  in  my  pocket,  and 
get  on  a  horse.     Nobody  ever  missed  me." 

"  Did  you  never  lose  your  way .''  "  asked  Richard  : 
he  must  say  something,  he  felt  so  embarrassed. 

"  My  horse  always  knew  the  way  home.  I  have 
often  been  out  all  night,  though  ;  and  how  peaceful 
it  was  to  be  alone  with  Widow  Wind,  as  I  used  to 
call  the  night  ! — I  don't  know  why  now  ;  I  suppose 
I  once  knew." 

Something  in  this  way  she  ran  on  with  her  story, 
but  I  fail  to  approach  the  charm  of  her  telling.  Her 
narrative '\vas  almost  childish  in  its  utterance,  but 
childlike  in  its  insight.  What  could  have  moved  her 
so  to  confide  in  a  stranger  and  a  workman  ?  In 
truth,  she  needed  little  moving  ;  her  nature  was 
to  trust  everybody  ;  but  there  were  not  many  to 
whom  she  could  talk.  Miss  Brown  helped  her  with 
no  response ;  to  her  parents  she  had  no  impulse  to 
speak  ;  the  young  people  she  met  stared  at  the  least 
allusion  to  the  wild  ways  of  her  past  life,  making 
her  feel  she  was  not  one  of  them.  Even  Arthur 
Lestrange  had  more  than  once  looked  awkward  at  a 


3ARBARA    AND    RICHARD, 


151 


remark  she  happened  to  make!  So,  instead  of  con- 
fiding in  any  of  tliem,  that  is,  letting  her  heart  go  in 
search  of  theirs,  she  had  taken  to  amusing  them,  and 
in  this  succeeded  so  thoroughly  as  to  be  an  immense 
favorite — which,  however,  did  not  make  her  happy, 
did  not  light  up  the  world  within  her.  Hence  it  was 
no  great  wonder  that,  being  such  as  she  was,  she 
should  feel  drawn  to  Richard.  He  was  the  first  man 
she  had  even  begun  to  respect.  In  her  humility  she 
found  him  every  way  her  superior.  It  was  wonder- 
ful to  her  that  he  should  know  so  much  about  books, 
the  way  people  made  them,  what  they  meant,  and 
how  mistakes  got  into  them,  and  went  from  one 
generation  to  another  :  they  were  his  very  friends  ! 
She  thought  it  was  his  love  for  books  that  had  made 
him  a  bookbinder,  as  indeed  it  was  his  love  for  them 
that  had  made  him  a  book-mender.  Her  heart  and 
mind  were  free  from  many  social  prejudices.  She 
knew  that  people  looked  down  upon  men  who  did 
things  with  their  hands  ;  but  she  had  done  so  many 
things  herself  with  her  hands,  and  been  so  much 
obliged  to  others  who  could  do  things  with  their 
hands  better  than  she,  that  she  felt  the  superiority  of 
such  whose  hands  were  their  own  perfect  servants, 
and  ready  to  help  others  as  well. 

One  of  the  things  by  which  she  wounded  the  sense 
of  propriety  in  those  about  her  was,  that  she  would 
talk  of  some  things  that,  in  their  judgment,  ought  to 
be  kept  secret.  Now  Barbara  could  understand  keep- 
ing a  great  joy  secret,  but  a  misery  was  not  a  nice 
thing  to  cuddle  up  and  hide  ;  of  a  misery  she  must 
get  rid,  and  if  talking  about  it  was  any  relief,  why 
not  talk  ?  She  soon  found,  however,  that  it  was  no 
relief-  to  talk  to  Arthur  or  his  sister  :  and  from  the 


152  THERE    AND    BACK. 


common-place  governess,  she  recoiled.  The  book- 
binder was  different  ;  he  was  a  man  ;  he  was  not 
what  people  called  a  gentleman  ;  he  was  a  man  like 
the  men  in  the  Bible,  who  spoke  out  what  they 
meant !  The  others  were  empty  ;  Richard  was  full 
of  man  !  As  regarded  her  father  and  mother,  she 
could  betray  no  secret  of  theirs  ;  everybody  about 
them  knew  the  things  she  talked  of;  and  had  they 
been  secrets,  neither  would  have  cared  a  pin  what  a 
working  man  might  know  or  think  of  them  !  Did 
they  not  quarrel  in  the  presence  of  the  very  cat  ! 
Then  Richard  was  such  a  gentlemanly  workman  ! 
Of  course  he  could  not  be  a  gentleman  in  England, 
but  there  must  be,  certainly  there  ought  to  be  some- 
where the  place  in  which  Richard,  just  as  he  was, 
would  be  a  gentleman  !  She  w^as  sure  he  would  not 
laugh  at  her  behind  her  back,  and  she  was  not  sure 
that  Arthur,  or  Theodora,  even,  would  not.  More 
than  all,  he  was  ready  to  open  for  her  the  door  into 
the  rich  chamber  of  his  own  knowledge  !  Must  a 
man  be  a  workman  to  know  about  books  ?  What 
then  if  a  workman  was  a  better  and  greater  kind  of 
man  than  a  gentleman  ?  In  her  own  country,  it  did 
not  matter  so  much  about  books,  for  there  one  had 
so  many  friends  !  Why  read  about  the  beauties  of 
Nature,  where  she  was  at  home  with  her  always  ! 
What  did  any  one  want  with  poetry  who  could  be 
out  as  long  as  she  pleased  with  the  old  night,  and 
the  stars  gray  with  glory,  and  the  wind  wandering 
everywhere  and  knowing  all  things  !  Here  it  was 
different !  Here  she  could  not  do  without  books  ! 
Where  the  things  themselves  were  not,  she  wanted 
help  to  think  about  them  !  And  that  help  was  in 
books,  and  Richard  could  teach  her  how  to  get  at  it ! 


BARBARA    AND    RICHARD.  1 53 

It  was  indeed  amazing  that  one  who  had  read  so 
little  should  have  so  good,  although  so  imperfect  a 
notion  of  what  books  could  do.  Just  so  much  a  few- 
cheap  novelshad  sufficed  to  reveai'to  her  !  But  then 
Barbara  was  herself  a  world  of  uncrystallized  poetry. 
What  is  feeling  but  poetry  in  a  gaseous  condition  ? 
What  is  fine  thought  but  poetry  in  a  fluid  condition  .'* 
What  is  thought  solidified,  but  fine  prose;  thought 
crystallized,   but  verse  ? 

"  Here,"  she  would  say,  but  later  than  the  period 
of  which  I  am  now  writing,  "where  the  weather  is 
often  so  stupid  that  it  won't  do  anything,  won't  be 
weather  at  all  ;  will  neither  blow,  nor  rain,  nor  freeze, 
nor  shine,  you  need  books  to  make  a  world  inside 
you — to  take  you  away,  as  by  the  spell  of  a  magician 
or  on  the  wings  of  an  eagle,  from  the  walls  and  the 
nothingness,  into  a  world  -where  one  either  finds 
everything  or  wants  nothing."  She  had  yet  to  learn 
that  books  themselves  are  but  weak  ministers,  that 
the  spirit  dwelling  in  them  must  lead  back  to  him 
who  gave  it  or  die  ;  that  they  are  but  windows,  which 
if  they  look  not  out  on  the  eternal  spaces,  will  them- 
selves be  blotted  out  by  the  darkness. 

To  end  her  story,  she  told  Richard  that,  since  their 
coming  to  this  country,  her  mother's  favorite  had 
died.  She  nearly  went  mad,  she  said,  and  had  never 
been  like  herself  again.  For  not  only  had  her  opposi- 
tion to  her  husband  deepened  into  hate,  but — here, 
to  Richard's  amusement  when  he  found  on  what  the 
reverential  change  was  attendant,  Barbara  lowered 
her  voice — she  really  and  actually  hated  God  also. 
"Isn't  it  awful .?  "  Barbara  said;  but  meeting  no  re- 
sponse in  the  honest  eyes  of  Richard,  she  dropped 
hers,  and  went  on. 


154  THERE    AND    BACK. 

"I  have  heard  her  say  the  wildest  and  wickedest 
things,  careless  whether  any  one  was  near.  I  think 
she  must  at  times  be  out  of  her  mind  !  One  day  not 
long  ago  I  saw  her  shake  her  fist  as  high  as  slie  could 
reach  above  her  head,  looking  up  with  an  expression 
of  rage  and  reproach  and  defiance  that  was  terrible. 
Had  we  been  in  New  Zealand,  I  should  not  have 
wondered  so  much  :  there  are  devils  going  about 
there.  Nobody  knows  of  any  here,  but  it  was  here 
they  got  into  my  mother,  and  made  her  defy  God. 
She  does  it  straight  out  in  church.  That  is  why  I 
always  sit  in  the  poor  seats,  and  not  in  the  little  gal- 
lery that  belongs  to  my  father.  — Have  you  ever  been 
to  our  church,  Mr.  Tuke  ?  " 

Richard  told  her  he  never  went  to  church  except 
when  his  mother  wanted  him  to  go  with  her. 

"My  mother  goes  twice  every  Sunday  ;  but  what 
do  you  think  she  is  doing  all  the  time.-*  The  gallery 
has  curtains  about  it,  but  she  never  allows  those  in 
front  to  be  drawn,  and  anybody  in  the  opposite  gal- 
lery can  see  into  it  quite  well,  and  the  clergyman 
when  he  is  in  the  pulpit :  she  lies  there  on  a  couch, 
in  a  nest  of  pillows,  reading  a  novel,  a  yellow  French 
one  generally,  just  as  if  she  were  in  her  own  room  ! 
She  knows  the  clergyman  sees  her,  and  that  is  why 
she  does  it." 

"She  disapproves  of  the  whole  thing?"  said 
Richard. 

"She  used  to  like  church  well  enough." 

"She  must  mean. to  protest,  else  why  should  she 
go  ?  Has  she  had  any  quarrel  with  the  clergy- 
man ? " 

"  None  that  I  know  of." 

"  What  then  do  you  tliink  she  means  by  going  and 


BARBARA    AND    RICHARD. 


155 


not  joiningf  in?  Why  is  she  present  and  not  taking- 
part  ?  " 

"I  believe  she  does  it  just  to  let  God  know  she  is 
not  pleased  with  him.  She  thinks  he  has  treated  her 
cruelly  and  tyrannically,  and  she  will  not  pretend  to 
worship  him.  She  wants  to  show  him  how  bitterly 
she  feels  the  way  he  has  turned  against  her.  She 
used  to  say  prayers  to  him  ;  she  will  do  so  no 
more  !  and  she  goes  to  church  that  he  may  see  she 
won't." 

The  absurdity  of  the  thing  struck  Richard  sharply, 
but  he  feared  to  hurt  the  girl  and  lose  her  confidence. 

"Her  behavior  is  only  a  kind  of  insolent  prayer  !  " 
he  said.  " — Has  the  clergyman  ever  spoken  to  her 
about  it  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  he  has.  He  spoke  to  me,  but  when 
I  said  he  ought  to  speak  to  her,  he  did  not  seem  to 
see  it.  /should  speak  to  her  fast  enough  if  it  were 
}?iy  church  !  " 

"  I  dare  say  he  thinks  her  mind  affected,  and  fears 
to  make  her  worse,"  said  Richard.  "  But  he  might, 
I  think,  persuade  her  that,  as  she  is  not  on  good  terms 
with  the  person  who  lives  in  the  church,  she  ought 
to  stay  away." 

Barbara  looked  at  him  with  doubtful  inquiry,  but 
Richard  went  on. 

' '  What  sort  of  a  man  is  the  clergyman  .?  "  he  asked. 

"I  don't  know.  He  seems  always  thinking  about 
things,  and  never  finding  out.    I  suppose  he  is  stupid  !  " 

"That  does  not  necessarily  follow,"  said  Richard 
with  a  smile,  reflecting  how  hard  it  would  be  for  the 
man  to  answer  one  of  a  thousand  questions  he  might 
put  to  him  in  connection  with  his  trade.  "Your 
poor  mother  must  be  very  unhappy  1  "  he  added. 


156  THERE    AND    BACK. 


"  She  may  well  be  !  I  am  no  comfort  to  her. 
She  never  heeds  me  ;  or  she  tells  me  to  go  and  amuse 
myself — she  is  busy.  My  father  has  his  twin,  and 
poor  mamma  has  nobody  !  " 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


BARBARA  AND  OTHERS. 


At  this  point,  Barbara's  friend  came  into  the  room, 
and  they  went  away  together. 

Theodora,  so  named  by  her  mother  because  she 
was  born  on  a  Sunday,  was  a  very  different  girl  from 
Barbara.  Nominally  friends,  neither  understood  the 
other.  Theodora  was  the  best  of  the  family,  but  that 
did  not  suffice  to  make  her  interesting.  She  was  short, 
stout,  rather  clumsy,  with  an  honest,  thick-featured 
face,  and  entirely  without  guile.  Even  when  she  saw 
it,  she  could  not  believe  it  there.  She  had  not  much 
sympathy,  but  was  very  kind.  She  never  hesitated 
to  do  what  she  was  sure  was  right ;  but  then  except 
for  rules,  many  of  them  far  from  right  them- 
selves, she  would  have  been  almost  always  in  doubt. 
Anything  in  the  shape  of  a  rule,  she  received  as  an 
angel  from  heaven.  If  all  the  rules  she  obeyed  had 
been  right,  and  she  had  seen  the  right  in  them,  she 
would  have  been  making  rapid  progress  ;  as  it  was, 
her  progress  was  very  slow.  How  Barbara  and  she 
managed  to  entertain  each  other,  I  find  it  hard  to 
think ;  but  all  forms  of  innocent  humanity  must 
have  much  in  common.  A  contrast,  nevertheless, 
the  two  must  have  presented  to  any  power  able 
to  read  them.  Barbara  was  like  a  heath  of  thyme 
and  wild  roses  and  sudden  winds  ;  Theodora  like  a 
Dutch  garden  without  its  flowers.     They  never  quar- 


158  THERE    AND    BACK. 

relied.      I  suspect  they  did  not  come  near  enough  to 
quarrel. 

Barbara  left  Richard  almost  bewitched,  and  con- 
siderably perplexed.  He  had  never  seen  anything 
like  her.  No  more  had  most  people  that  met  her. 
She  seemed  of  another  nature  from  his,  a  sort  of  sylph 
or  salamander,  yet,  in  simplest  human  fashion,  she 
had  come  quite  close  to  him.  She  had  indeed  brought 
to  bear  upon  him,  without  knowing  it,  that  humbling 
and  elevating  power  which  ideal  womankind  has 
always  had,  and  will  eternally  have  upon  genuine 
manhood.  There  was  an  airiness  about  her,  yet  a 
reality,  a  lightness,  yet  a  force,  a  readiness,  a  life, 
such  as  he  could  never  have  imagined.  She  was  a 
revelation  unrevealed — a  presence  lovely  but  incred- 
ible, suggesting  facts  and  relations  which  the  c(Mn- 
monplace  in  him  said  could  not  exist.  The  vision 
was,  to  use  a  favorite  but  pagan  phrase,  "too  good 
to  be  true."  Richard's  knowledge  of  girls  was  small 
indeed,  but  he  had  now  enough  to  make  his  first 
comparison  :  Alice  was  like  China,  Barbara  like  Ve- 
netian glass.  He  thought  there  was  something  in 
Alice  if  he  could  only  get  at  it  :  he  feared  there  was 
nothing  in  Barbara  to  get  at.  For  one  thing,  how 
could  she  have  such  parents  and  take  it  so  lightly  !  - 

There  were  certainly  few  things  yet  in  flower  in 
Barbara's  garden,  but  there  was  a  multituMe  of  pre- 
cious things  on  the  way  to  unfold  themselves  to  any 
one  that  might  love  her  enough  to  give  them  a  true 
welcome.  She  was  nearly  as  far  out  of  Richard's 
understanding  as  beyond  that  of  the  good  Theodora. 
The  consequence  was  that  he  felt  himself  full  beside 
her  emptiness.  He  was  no  coxcomb,  neither  dreamed 
of  presenting    himself  for  her  admiration  ;    but   he 


BARBARA    AND    OTHERS.  1 59 

pictured  the  delight  of  opening  the  eyes  of  this  child- 
woman  to  the  many  doors  of  treasure-houses  that 
stood  in  her  own  wall. 

Only  those  who  haunt  the  slopes  of  literature 
know  that  marvels  lie  in  the  grass  for  the  hand  that 
will  gather  them  in.  Multitudes  who  count  them- 
selves readers  know  no  more  of  the  books  they  read 
than  the  crowds  that  visit  the  Academy  exhibitions 
know  of  the  pictures  they  gaze  upon.  Yet  are  the 
realms  of  literature  free  as  air,  freer  even  than  those 
of  music.  The  man  whose  literary  judgment  and 
sympathy  I  prized  beyond  that  of  the  world  beside, 
was  a  clerk  in  the  Bank  of  England.  The  man  who 
by  the  spell  of  his  words  can  set  me  in  the  heart  of 
soft-stealing  twilight — nay,  rather,  can  set  the  very 
heart  of  the  dying  day  in  me — was  a  Lancashire 
weaver.  A  dainty,  bird-moth-like  Barbara  had  be- 
gun to  suspect  the  existence  ot  something  hers  y^t 
beyond  her  in  books,  of  an  unknown  world  which  lay 
at  her  very  door.  In  that  same  world  the  bookbinder 
passed  much  of  his  time,  and  it  was  neither  in  pride 
nor  in  presumption  that  he  desired  to  share  it  with 
Barbara.  It  is  the  home-born  impulse  of  every  true 
heart  to  give  of  its  best,  to  infect  with  its  own  joy  ; 
and  the  thought  of  giving  grandly  to  a  woman,  to  a 
lady,  might  well  fill  the  soul  of  a  working  man  with 
a  hitherto  unnamed  ecstasy.  Another  might  have 
compared  it  to  the  housing  of  a  strayed  angel  with 
frozen  feathers,  lost  on  the  wintry  wilds  of  this  far- 
out,  border  world  ;  but  Richard  did  not  believe  in 
those  celestial  birds  ;  and  had  he  believed,  a  woman 
would  yet  have  been  to  him,  and  rightly,  more  than 
any  angel.  What  he  did  think  of  was  the  huntsman 
and  the  little  lady  in  The  Flight  of  the  Duchess. 


i6o 


THERE    AND    BACK. 


He  began  to  ponder  how  to  treat  her — how  to  be- 
gin to  open  doors  for  her — what  door  to  open  first. 
Should  it  be  of  prose  or  of  verse  ?  He  must  have 
more  talk  with  her  ere  he  could  tell  !  He  must  try 
her  with  something  ! 

He  had  time  to  ponder,  for  she  did  not  anew  swim 
into  his  ken  for  three  days.  He  wondered  whether 
he  had  displeased  her,  but  could  think  of  nothing  he 
had  said  or  done  amiss.  He  must  be  very  careful 
not  to  offend  her  with  the  least  roughness  in  word  or 
manner,  lest  he  should  so  lose  the  chance  of  helping 
her  !  It  was  the  main  part  of  his  creed,  as  gathered 
from  his  adoptive  father,  that  a  man  must  do  some- 
thing for  his  neighbor  :  Miss  Wylder  was  his  neigh- 
bor ;  what  better  thing  could  he  do  for  her  than  make 
her  free  of  the  greatest  joy  he  knew  ? 

Barbara  had  quite  as  much  liberty  as  was  good. 
Her  mother  sat  in  a  darkened  room,  and  took  mor- 
phia ;  her  father,  to  occupy  his  leisure,  had  begun  to 
repair  an  old  house  on  the  estate  with  his  own  hands. 
Nobody  heeded  Barbara ;  she  did  as  she  pleased, 
going  and  coming  as  in  the  colony.  A  favorite  with 
all  about  the  place,  she  had  never  to  use  authority. 
Every  one,  for  very  love,  was  at  her  service.  What- 
ever preposterous  thing,  at  whatever  unearthly 
moment,  she  might  have  wanted,  it  would  have 
been  ready — her  mare  at  midnight,  her  breakfast  at 
noon,  a  cow  in  the  library  to  draw  from.  There  was 
little  regularity  in  the  house  ;  everyone  wanted  to  do 
what  was  right  in  his  own  eyes  ;  but  every  one  was 
ready  to  see  right  with  the  eyes  of  Barbara. 

Home  was  nevertheless,  as  one  may  well  believe, 
a  terribly  dull  place  to  her  ;  and  as,  for  some  occult 
reason,  Theodora  Lestrange  had  taken  a  fancy  to 
her,  as  Sir  Wilton  was  charmed  with  her,  and  Lady 


BARBARA  AND  OTHERS.  l6l 

Ann — for  reasons — had  little  to  say  against  her,  she 
was  at  Mortgrange  as  much  as  she  pleased — never 
too  much  even  for  Arthur,  whose  propriety,  rather 
insular,  a  little  provincial,  and  sometimes  pedantic, 
she  would  shock  twenty  times  a  day  ;  for  he  was 
fascinated  by  her  grace  and  playfulness,  though  he 
declared  he  would  as  soon  think  of  marrying  a  hum- 
ming-bird as  Barbara.  He  tried  for  a  while  to  throw 
his  net  over  her,  for  he  would  fain  have  tamed  her  to 
come  at  his  call  ;  but  he  soon  arrived  at  the  conclu- 
sion that  nothing  but  the  troubles  of  life  would  tame 
her,  and  then  it  would  be  a  pity.  She  was  a  fine 
creature,  he  said,  but  hardly  human  ;  and  for  his 
part  he  preferred  a  woman  to  a  fay  ! 

But  such  was  the  report  of  her  riches,  that  Sir  Wil- 
ton and  Lady  Ann  were  both  ready  to  welcome  her 
as  a  daughter-in-law.  Sir  Wilton  was  delighted  with 
her  gayety  and  the  sharp  readiness  of  her  clever 
retort.  All  he  regretted  in  her  lack  of  an  English 
education  was  that  her  speech  was  not  quite  that  of 
a  lady — on  which  point  Sir  Wilton  had  not  always 
been  so  fastidious.  For  the  rest,  intellectual  develop- 
ment was  of  so  little  interest  to  him  that  he  never 
suspected  Barbara  of  having  more  than  a  usual  share 
of  intellect  to  develop.  She  was  just  the  wife  for  the 
future  baronet,  he  was  once  heard  to  say — though 
how  he  came  once  to  say  it  I  cannot  think,  for  never 
before  had  he  betrayed  a  consciousness  that  he  would 
not  be  the  present  baronet  forever  and  ever.  So 
long  as  he  did  not  feel  the  approach  of  death,  he 
would  never  think  of  dying,  and  then  he  would  do 
his  best  to  forget  it.  He  seemed  sometimes  to 
grudge  .his  son  the  dainty  little  wife  Barbara  would 
make  him:  "The  rascal  will  be  the  envy  of  the 
clubs  !  "  he  said.  ii 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

MRS.     WYLDER. 

Mr.  Wylder  was  lord  of  the  manor,  and  chief  land- 
owner, though  his  family  had  never  been  the  most 
influential,  in  the  parish  next  that  in  which  lay  Mort- 
grange.  He  was  not  much  fitted  for  an  English 
squire.  He  wished  to  stand  well  with  his  neighbors, 
but  lacked  the  geniality  which  is  the  very  body,  the 
outside  expression  of  humanity.  Proud  of  his  family, 
he  had  the  peculiar  fault  of  the  Goth — that  of  arro- 
gance, with  its  accompanying  incapacity  for  putting 
oneself  in  the  place  of  another.  Mr.  Wylder  pos- 
sessed a  huge  inability  of  conceiving  the  manner  in 
which  what  he  did  or  said  must  affect  the  person  to 
whom  he  did  or  said  it.  So  entirely  was  he  thus 
disqualified  for  social  interchange,  that  he  remained 
supremely  satisfied  in  his  consequent  isolation,  hardly 
recognized  it,  and  never  doubted  himself  a  perfect 
gentleman.  Had  any  diffidence  enabled  him  to  per- 
ceive the  reflection  of  himself  in  the  mirroring  minds 
of  those  around  him,  his  self-opinion  might  have  been 
troubled  ;  but  when  he  did  begin  to  discover  that  the 
neighbors  did  not  desire  his  company,  he  set  itdown 
to  stupid  prejudice  against  him  because  he  had  been 
so  long  absent  from  the  country.  He  did  not  hunt, 
and  when  he  went  out  shooting,  which  was  seldom, 
he  went  alone,  or  with  a  gamekeeper  only.  In  fact 
he  was  so  careless,  that  most  men  who  had  once 


MRS.    WYLDER.  163 


shot  with  him,  ever  after  gave  him  a  wide  berth  when 
they  saw  him  with  a  gun  in  his  hand.  On  one  oc- 
casion he  shot  his  wife's  twin  in  the  calf  of  the  leg  ; 
which,  however,  made  her  think  no  worse  of  his 
shooting,  for  she  could  never  be  persuaded  he  had 
not  done  it  intentionally. 

For  a  short  time  before  leaving  Australasia,  the 
family  had  spent  money  in  one  of  its  larger  cities, 
and  had  been  a  good  deal  followed  ;  but  neither  there 
nor  in  England  did  they  find  that  wealth  could  do 
everything.  A  few  other  qualities,  not  by  any  means 
of  the  highest  order,  are  required  by  nearly  all  social 
agglomerations,  and  with  some  of  these  Mrs.  Wylder 
was  as  scantily  equipped  as  her  husband  with  others. 

Resenting  the  indifference  of  his  neighbors,  and 
not  caring  to  remove  it,  Mr.  Wylder  betook  himself 
to  the  exercise  of  certain  constructive  faculties,  not 
unfrequently  developed  in  circumstances  in  which  a 
man  has  to  be  his  own  Jack-of-all-trades  :  finding  a 
certain  old  manor-house  which  he  had  haunted  as  a 
boy,  chiefly  for  the  sake  of  its  attendant  gooseberries 
and  apples,  unoccupied  and  fallen  into  decay,  he  set 
about  restoring  it  with  his  own  hands.  But  it  had  not 
occurred  to  him  that,  although  even  in  England  it  is 
not  necessary,  as  they  did  at  Lagado,  in  building  to 
begin  with  the  roof,  in  England  especially  is  it  neces- 
sary in  repairing  to  begin  with  the  roof.  While  the 
floors  were  rotting  away,  he  would  be  busy  panelling 
the  walls,  regardless  of  a  drop  falling  steadily  in  the 
middle  of  the  bench  at  which  he  was  working. 

The  clergyman  of  the  parish,  one  Thomas  Wing- 
fold,  a  man  who  loved  his  fellow,  and  would  fain 
give  him  of  the  best  he  had,  a  man  who  was  a 
Christian  first,  which  means  a  man,  and  then  a  church- 


1 64  THERE    AND    BACK. 


man,  liad  now,  for  almost  three  years,  often  puzzled 
brain  and  heart  together  to  find  what  could  be  done 
for  these  his  new  parishioners — from  the  world's 
point  of  view  the  first,  yet  in  reality  as  insignificant 
as  any  he  had  ;  and  not  yet  did  he  know  how  to  get 
near  them.  He  had  not  yet  seen  a  glimmer  of  re- 
ligion in  the  man,  and  had  seen  more  than  a  glimmer 
of  something  else  in  the  woman.  Between  him  and 
either  of  them  their  common  humanity  had  not  yet 
shown  a  spark.  What  he  had  seen  of  the  girl  he  liked, 
but  he  had  not  seen  much. 

It  was  a  fine  frosty  day  in  February,  about  twelve 
o'clock,  when  Mr.  Wingfold  walked  up  the  avenue  of 
Scotch  firs  to  call  on  Mrs.  Wylder.  He  was  dressed 
like  any  country  gentleman  in  a  tweed  suit,  carried 
a  rather  strong  stick,  and  wore  a  soft  felt  hat,  looking 
altogether  more  of  a  squire  than  a  clergyman — for 
which  his  parishioners  mostly  liked  him  the  better. 
Pious  people  in  general  seem  to  regard  religion  as  a 
necessary  accompaniment  of  life  ;  to  Wingfold  it  was 
life  itself;  with  him  religion  must  be  all,  or  could  be 
nothing.  He  did  not  accept  the  good  news  of  God; 
he  strained  it  to  his  heart,  and  was  jubilant  over  it. 
He  was  a  rather  square-looking  man,  with  projecting 
brows,  and  a  grizzled  beard.  The  upper  part  of  his 
face  would  look  dark  while  a  smile  was  hovering 
about  his  mouth  ;  at  another  time  his  mouth  would 
look  solemn,  almost  severe,  while  aradiance,  as  from 
some  white  cloud  nobody  could  see,  illuminated  his 
forehead.  He  generally  walked  with  his  eyes  on  the 
■ground,  but  would  every  now  and  then  straighten 
his  back,  and  gaze  away  to  the  horizon,  as  if  looking 
for  the  far-off  sails  of  help.  He  was  noted  among  his 
farmers  for  his  common  sense,  as  they  called  it.  and 


MRS.    WYLDER.  1 65 


among  the  gentry  for  a  certain  frankness  of  speech, 
which  most  of  them  hked. 

He  rang  the  door-bell  of  the  Hall,  and  asked  if 
Mrs.  Wylder  was  at  home.  The  man  hesitated, 
looked  in  the  clergyman's  face,  and  smiling  oddly, 
answered,    "Yes,  sir." 

"  Only  you  don't  think  she  will  care  to  see  me?  " 

"Well,  you  know,  sir, " 

"I  do.     Go  up,  and  announce  me." 

The  man  led  the  way,  and  Mr.  Wingfold  followed. 
He  opened  the  door  of  a  room  on  the  first  floor,  and 
announced  him.  Mr.  Wingfold  entered  immediately, 
that  there  might  be  no  time  for  words  with  the  man 
and  a  message  of  refusal. 

Discouragement  encountered  him  on  the  threshold. 
The  lady  sat  by  a  blazing  fire,  with  her  back  to  a 
window  through  which  the  frosty  sun  of  February  was 
sending  lovely  prophecies  of  the  summer.  She  was 
in  a  gorgeous  dressing-gown,  her  plentiful  black  hair 
twisted  carelessly,  but  with  a  show  of  defiance,  round 
her  head.  She  was  almost  a  young  woman  still,  with 
a  hardness  of  expression  that  belonged  neither  to 
youth  nor  age.  She  sat  sideways  to  the  door,  so  that 
without  turning  her  head  she  must  have  seen  the 
parson  enter,  but  she  did  not  move  a  visible  hair's- 
breadth.  Her  feet,  in  silk  stockings  and  shabby  slip- 
pers, continued  perched  on  the  fender.  She  made 
no  sign  of  greeting  when  the  parson  came  in  front 
of  her,  but  a  scowl  dark  as  night  settled  on  her  low 
forehead  and  black  eyebrows,  and  her  face  shortened 
and  spread  out.  Wingfold  approached  her  with  the 
air  of  a  man  who  knew  himself  unwelcome  but  did 
not  much  mind— for  he  had  not  to  care  about  him- 
self. 


I 66  THERE    AND    BACK. 


"  Good-morning,  Mrs.  Wylder  !  "  he  said.  "  What 
a  lovely  morning-  it  is  !  " 

"Is  it.-*  I  know  nothing  about  it.  You  have  a 
brutal  climate  !  " 

He  knew  she  regarded  him  as  the  objectionable 
agent  of  a  more  objectionable  Heaven. 

"You  would  not  dislike  it  so  much  if  you  met  it 
out  of  doors.      A  walk  on  a  day  like  this  now, " 

"  Pray  who  authorized  you  to  come  and  offer  me 
advice.?  Have  I  concealed  from  you,  Mr.-Wingfold, 
that  your  presence  gives  me  no  pleasure  ? " 

"You  certainly  have  not !  You  have  been  quite 
honest  with  me.  I  did  not  come  in  the  hope  of 
pleasing  you — though  I  wish  I  could." 

"Then  perhaps  you  will  explain  why  you  are 
here  ! " 

"There  are  visits  that  must  be  made,  even  with  the 
certainty  of  giving  annoyance  !"  answered  Wingfold, 
rather  cheerfully. 

"That  means  you  consider  yourself  justified  in 
forcing  your  way  into  my  room,  before  I  am 
dressed,  with  the  simple  intention  of  making  your- 
self disagreeable  !  " 

"If  I  were  here  on  my' own  business,  you  might 
well  blame  me  !  But  what  would  you  say  to  one  of 
your  men  who  told  you  he  dared  not  go  your  message 
for  fear  of  the  lightning  ?  " 

"  I  would  tell  him  he  was  a  coward,  and  to  go 
about  his  business." 

"That,  then,  is  what  I  don't  want  to  be  told  !  " 

"  And  for  fear  of  being  told  it,  you  dare  me  ?  " 

"  Well — you  may  put  it  so  ; — yes." 

"I  don't  like  you    the   worse   for   your   courage. 


MRS.    WYLDER.  l6j 

There's  more  than  one  man  would  face  half  a  dozen 
bush-rangers  rather  than  a  woman  I  know  !  " 

"  I  believe  it.  But  it  makes  no  extravagant  de- 
mand on  my  courag-e.  I  am  not  afraid  o{ you.  I 
owe  you  nothing- — except  any  service  worth  doing- 
for  you  !  " 

"Let  that  blind  down  :  the  sun's  putting-  the  fire 
out." 

"It's  a  pity  to  put  the  sun  out  in  such  a  brutal 
climate.      He  does  the  fire  no  harm. " 

"  Don't  tell  me!" 

"Science  says  he  does  not." 

"  He  puts  the  fire  out,  I  tell  you  !  " 

"  I  do  not  think  so." 

"I've  seen  it  with  my  own  eyes.  God  knows 
•which  is  the  greater  humbug — Science  or  Religion  ! 
— Are  you  going  to  pull  that  blind  down  .?  " 

Wingfold  lowered  the  blind. 

"Now,  look  here!"  said  Mrs.  Wylder.  "You're 
not  afraid  of  me,  and  I'm  not  afraid  of  you  ! — It's  a 
low  trade,  is  yours." 

' '  What  is  my  trade  ?  " 

"What  is  your  trade.? — Why,  to  talk  goody  !  and 
read  goody  !  and  pray  goody  !  and  be  goody,  goody  ! 
—Ugh  !  " 

"I'm  not  doing  much  of  that  sort  at  this  moment, 
any  way  !  "  rejoined  Wingfold,  with  a  laugh. 

"You  know  this  is  not  the  place  for  it !  " 

"Would  you  mind  telling  me  which  is  tlie  place 
to  read  a  French  novel  in  .?  " 

"Church  :  there  !  " 

"What  would  you  do  if  I  were  to  nisiston  reading 
a  chapter  of  the  Bible  here.?  " 

"Look!"  she  ans\vered,    and  rising,    snatched  a 


1 68  THERE    AND    BACK. 


saloon-pistol    from    the    chimney-piece,     and    took 
deliberate  aim  at  him. 

Wingfold  looked  straight  down  the  throat  of  the 
thick  barrel,  and  did  not  budge. 

" — I  would  shoot  you  with  that,"  she  went  on, 
holding  the  weapon  as  I  have  said.  "  It  would  kill 
you,  for  I  can  shoot,  and  should  hit  you  in  the  eye, 
not  on  the  head.  I  shouldn't  mind  being  hanged  for 
it.     Nothing  matters  now  !  " 

She  flung  the  heavy  weapon  from  her,  gave  a  great 
cry,  not  like  an  hysterical  woman,  but  an  enraged 
animal,  stuffed  her  handkerchief  into  her  mouth, 
pulled  it  out  again,  and  began  tearing  at  it  with  her 
teeth.  The  pistol  fell  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 
Wingfold  went  and  picked  it  up. 

' '  I  should  deserve  it  if  I  did, "  he  said,  quietly,  as  he 
laid  the  pistol  on  the  table.  " — But  you  don't  fight 
fair,  Mrs.  Wylder  ;  for  you  know  I  can't  take  a  pis- 
tol with  me  into  the  pulpit  and  shoot  you.  It  is 
cowardly  of  you  to  take  advantage  of  that." 

"  Well !  I  like  the  assurance  of  you  !  Do  I  read  so 
as  to  annoy  any  one  ?  " 

"Yes,  you  do.  You  daren't  read  aloud,  because 
you  would  be  put  out  of  the  church  if  you  did ;  but 
you  annoy  as  many  of  the  congregation  as  can  see 
you,  and  you  annoy  me.  Why  should  you  behave 
in  that  house  as  if  it  were  your  own,  and  yet  shoot 
me  if  I  behaved  so  in  yours  ?  Is  it  fair.?  Is  it  polite  .'' 
Is  it  acting  like  a  lady  ?  " 

.  "It  IS  my  house — at  least  it  is  my  pew,  and  I  will 
do  in  it  what  I  please. — Look  here,  Mr.  Wingfold  :  I 
don't  want  to  lose  my  temper  with  you,  but  I  tell 
you  that  pew  is  mine,  as  much  as  the  chair  you're 
not  ashamed  to  sit  upon  at  this  moment !     And  let 


MRS.  WYLDER.  I  69 

me  tell  you,  after  the  way  /'ve  been  treated,  my  be- 
havior don't  splash  much.  When  he's  brought  a 
woman  to  my  pass,  I  don't  see  God  Almighty  can 
complain  of  her  manners  !  " 

"Well,  thinking  of  him  as  you  do,  I  don't  wonder 
you  are  rude  !  " 

"What !  You  won't  curry  favor  with  him.? — You 
hold  by  fair  play  .?  Come,  now  !  I  call  that  down- 
right pluck  !  " 

"I  fear  you  mistake  me  a  little." 

"Of  course  1  do  !  I  might  have  known  that! 
When  you  think  a  parson  begins  to  speak  like  a  man, 
you  may  be  sure  you  mistake  him  !  " 

"You  wouldn't  behave  to  a  friend  of  your  own 
according  to  what  another  person  thought  of  him, 
would  you  ? " 

"No,  by  Jove,  I  wouldn't !  " 

"Then  you  won't  expect  me  to  do  so  !  " 

"I  should  think  not  !  Of  course  you  stick  by  the 
church  !  " 

"Never  mind  the  church.  She's  not  my  mistress, 
though  I  am  her  servant.  God  is  my  master,  and  I 
tell  you  he  is  as  good  and  fair  as  goodness  and  fair- 
ness can  be  goodness  and  fairness  !  " 

"What!  Will  you  drive  me  mad!  I  wish  he 
would  serve  you  as  he's  done  me — then  we  should 
hear  another  tune — rather!  You  call  it  good — you 
call  it  fair,  to  take  from  a  poor  creature  he  made  him- 
self, the  one  only  thing  she  cared  for.?" 

"Which  was  the  cause  of  a  strife  that  made  of  a 
family  in  which  he  wanted  to  live,  a  very  hell  upon 
earth  !  " 

"  You  dare  !  "  she  cried,  starting  to  her  feet. 

Wingfold  did  not  move. 


170  THERE    AND    BACK. 

"Mrs.  Wylder,"  he  said,  "dare  is  a  word  that 
needn't  be  used  again  between  you  and  me.  If  you 
dare  tell  God  that  he  is  a  devil,  I  may  well  dare  tell 
you  that  you  know  nothing  about  him,  and  that  I 
do  !  " 

"Say  on  your  honor,  then,  if  he  had  treated  you 
as  he  has  done  me — taken  from  you  the  light  of  your 
eyes,  would  you  count  it  fair. -^  Speak  like  the  man 
you  are." 

"  I  know  T  should." 

"  I  don't  believe  you.     And  I  won't  worship  him." 

"Why,  who  wants  you  to  worship  him.?  You 
must  be  a  very  different  person  before  he  w^ill  care 
much  for  your  worship  !  You  can't  worship  him 
w^hile  you  think  him  what  you  do.  He  is  something 
quite  different.  You  don't  know  him  to  love,  and 
you  don't  know  him  to  worship." 

"Why,  bless  my  soul  !  ain't  it  your  business — 
ain't  you  always  making  people  say  their  prayers.?  " 

"It  is  my  business  to  help  my  brothers  and  sisters 
to  know  God,  and  worship  him  in  spirit  and  in  truth 
— because  he  is  altogether  and  perfectly  true  and  lov- 
ing and  fair.  Do  you  think  he  would  have  you 
worship  a  being  such  as  you  take  him  to  be.  If  your 
son  is  in  good  company  in  the  other  world,  he  must 
be  greatly  troubled  at  the  way  you  treat  God — at 
your  unfairness  to  him.  But  your  bad  example  may, 
for  anything  I  know,  have  sent  him  where  he  has  not 
yet  begun  to  learn  anything  !  " 

"God  have  mercy! — will  the  man  tell  me  to  my 
face  that  my  boy  is  in  hell.? " 

"What  would  you  have.?  Would  you  have  him 
with  the  being  you  think  so  unjust  that  you  hate  him 
all  the  week,  and  openly  insult  him  on  Sunday.?" 


MRS.    WYLDER.  I7I 

"  You  are  a  bad  man,  a  hard-hearted  brute,  a  devil, 
to  say  such  things  about  my  blessed  boy  !  Oh  my 
God  !  to  think  that  the  very  day  he  was  taken  ill,  I 
struck  him  !  Why  did  he  let  me  do  it?  To  think 
that  that  very  day  he  killed  him,  when  he  ought  to 
have  killed  me  ! — killed  him  that  I  might  never  be 
able  to  tell  him  I  was  sorry  1  " 

"If  he  had  not  taken  him  then,  would  you  ever 
have  been  sorry  you  struck  him  ?  " 

She  burst  into  outcry  and  weeping,  mingled  with 
such  imprecation,  that  Wingfold  thought  it  one  of 
those  cases  of  possession  in  which  nothing  but  prayer 
is  of  use.  But  the  soul  and  the  demon  were  so 
united,  so  entirely  of  one  mind,  that  there  was  no 
room  for  prayer  to  get  between  them.  He  sat  quiet, 
lifted  up  his  heart,  and  waited.  By  and  by  there 
came  a  lull,  and  the  redeemable  woman  appeared, 
emerging  from  the  smoke  of  the  fury. 

"Oh,  my  Harry!  my  Harry!"'  she  cried.  "To 
take  him  from  my  very  bosom  !  He  will  never  love 
me  again  1  God  sha//  know  what  I  think  of  it  !  No 
mother  could  but  hate  him  if  he  served  her  so  !  " 

"Apparently  you  don't  want  the  boy  back  in  your 
bosom  again  !  " 

"None  of  your  fooling  of  me  now  !  "  she  answered, 
drawing  herself  up,  and  drying  her  eyes.  "I  can  stand 
a  good  deal,  but  I  won't  stand  that!  What's  gone  is 
gone  !  He's  dead,  and  the  dead  lie  in  no  bosom 
but  that  of  the  grave  !  They  go,  and  return  never 
more  ! " 

"  But  you  will  die  too  !  " 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that.?  You  zvi7l  be  talk- 
ing !  As  if  I  didn't  know  I'd  got  to  die,  one  day  or 
another  !     What's  that  to  me  and  Harry  !  " 


172  THERE    AND    BACK. 

"Then  you  think  we're  all  going  to  cease  and  go 
out,  like  the  clouds  that  are  carried  away  and  broken 
up  by  the  wind  ?  " 

"I  know  nothing  about  it,  and  I  don't  care. 
Nothing's  anything  to  me  but  Harry,  and  I  shall 
never  see  my  Harry  again  ! — Heaven  !  Bah  !  What's 
heaven  without  Harry  !  " 

"Nothing,  of  course  !  But  don't  you  ever  think  of 
seeing  him  again  ? '' 

"What's  the  use!  It's  all  a  mockery!  Where's 
the  good  of  meeting  when  we  sha'n't  be  human  beings 
any  more  ?  If  we're  nothing  but  ghosts — if  he's 
never  to  know  me — if  I'm  never  to  feel  him  in  my 
arms — ugh  I  it's  all  humbug  !  If  he  ever  meant  to 
give  me  back  my  Harry,  why  did  he  take  him  from 
me?  If  he  didn't  mean  me  to  rage  at  losing  him, 
why  did  he  give  him  to  me.?  " 

"  He  gave  you  his  brother  at  the  same  time,  and 
you  refused  to  love  him  :  what  if  he  took  the  one 
away  until  you  should  have  learned  to  love  the 
other  ?  " 

"I  can't  love  him  ;  I  won't  love  him  !  He  has  his 
father  to  love  him  !  He  don't  want  my  love  I  I 
haven't  got  it  to  give  him  !  Harry  took  it  with  him  ! 
I  hate  Peter  ! — What  are  you  doing  there — laughing 
in  your  sleeve  .-^     Did  you  never  see  a  woman  cry  .'' " 

"  I've  seen  many  a  woman  cry,  but  never  without 
my  heart  crying  with  her.  You  come  to  my  church, 
and  behave  so  badly  I  can  scarce  keep  from  crying 
for  you.  It  half  choked  me  last  Sunday,  to  see  you 
lying  there  with  that  horrid  book  in  your  haid,  and 
the  words  of  Christ  in  your  ears  !  " 

"'  I  didn't  heed  them.     It  wasn't  a  horrid  book  !  " 

"  It  z^(?s  a  horrid  book.     You  left  it  behind  you, 


MRS.     WYLDER. 


i73 


and  I  took  it  with  me.  I  laid  it  on  my  study-table, 
and  went  out  again.  When  I  came  home  to  dinner, 
my  wife  brought  it  to  me,  and  said,  *  Oh,  Tom,  how 
can  you  read  such  books  ? '  '  My  dear,'  I  answered, 
'  1  don't  know  what  is  in  the  book ;  I  haven't  read  a 
word  of  it.'" 

"And  then  you  told  her  where  you  found  it?  " 

"I  did  not." 

"  What  did  you  do  with  it.?  " 

"  I  said  to  her,  '  If  it's  a  bad  book,  here  goes  ! '  and 
threw  it  in  the  fire." 

"Then  I'm  not  to  know  the  end  of  the  story  !  But 
I  can  send  to  London  for  another  copy  !  I'm  much 
obliged  to  you,  Mr.  Wingfold,  for  destroying  my 
property  !— But  you  didn't  tell  her  where  you  found 
it .?  " 

"  I  did  not.     She  never  asked  me." 

Mrs.  Wylder  was  silent.  She  seemed  a  little 
ashamed,  perhaps  a  little  softened.  Wingfold  bade 
her  Pfood-morning.     She  did  not  answer  him. 


CHAPTER   XIX. 

MRS.     WYLDER    AND    BARBARA. 

To  make  all  this  quite  credible  to  a  doubting  reader, 
it  would  be  necessary  to  tell  Mrs.  Wylder's  history 
from  girlhood.  She  had  had  a  very  defective  educa- 
tion, and  what  there  was  of  it  w^as  all  for  show.  , 
Then  she  was  married  far  too  young,  and  to  a  man 
unworthy  of  any  good  woman.  She  indeed  was  not 
a  good  woman,  but  she  was  capable  of  being  made 
worse  ;  and  in  the  bush,  where  she  passed  years  not 
a  few,  and  in  cities  afterward,  she  met  women  and 
men  more  lawless  yet  than  herself  or  her  husband. 
Overbearing  where  her  likings  were  concerned,  and 
full  of  a  certain  generosity  where  but  her  interests 
were  in  question,  the  slackness  of  the  social  bonds 
in  the  colonies  had  favored  her  abnormal  develop- 
ment. It  is  difficult  to  say  how  much  man  or  woman 
is  the  worse  for  doing,  when  freed  from  restraint, 
what  he  or  she  would  have  been  glad  to  do  before, 
but  for  the  restraint.  Many  who  go  to  the  colonies, 
and  there  to  the  dogs,  only  show  themselves  such 
as  they  dared  not  appear  at  home  :  they  step  on  a 
steeper  slope,  and  arrive,  not  at  the  pit,  for  they  were 
in  that  already,  but  at  the  bottom  of  it,  so  much  the 
faster.  There  were,  however,  in  Mrs.  Wylder,  lovely 
rudimentary  remnants  of  a  good  breed.  She  inherited 
feelings  which  gave  her  a  certain  intermittent  and 
fugitive  dignity,    of  some    service  to   others    in    her 


MRS.     WYLDER    AND    BARBARA.  I  75 

wilder  times,  and  to  herself  when  she  came  into  con- 
tact with  an  older  civilization.  She  would  occasion- 
ally do  a  right  generous  thing — not  seldom  give  with 
a  freedom  and  judge  with  a  liberality  which  were 
mainly  rooted  in  carelessness. 

She  had  much  confidence  in  her  daughter ;  and  it 
is  said  well  for  the  mother  that,  with  all  her  ex- 
perience, she  yet  had  this  confidence — and  none  the 
less  that  she  had  never  taken  pains  to  instruct  her  in 
what  was  becoming.  The  most  she  had  done  in  this 
way  was  once  to  snatch  from  her  hand  and  throw  in 
the  fire  a  novel  she  had  herself,  a  moment  before, 
finished  with  unquestioning  acceptance.  If  she  had 
found  her  behaving  like  some  of  her  acquaintance  to 
whose  conduct  she  did  not  give  a  second  thought, 
for  her  friends  might  do  as  they  pleased  so  long  as 
they  did  not  offend  her,  she  would  certainly,  in  some 
of  her  moods  at  least,  have  killed  her. 

While  compelled,  from  lack  of  service,  to  employ 
herself  in  house  affairs,  she  neither  ate  nor  drank  more 
than  seemed  good  for  her ;  but  as  soon  as  she  had 
but  to  live  and  be  served,  she  began  to  counter- 
balance ennui  \N\\h.  self-indulgence,  and  continued  to 
do  so  until  the  death  of  her  boy,  ever  after  which  she 
had  sought  refuge  from  grief  in  narcotics.  Possibly 
she  would  not  have  behaved  as  she  did  in  church, 
but  that  her  nervous  being  was  a  very  sponge  for 
morphia.  Born  to  be  a  strong  woman,  she  was  a 
slave  to  her  impulses,  and,  one  of  the  weakest  of  her 
kind,  went  into  a  rage  at  the  least  show  of  opposition. 

Scarcely  had  Mr.  Wingfold  left  the  room,  when  in 
came  Barbara  in  her  riding-habit,  with  the  glow  of 
joyous  motion  upon  her  face,  for  she  had  just  ridden 
from  Morteranee. 


176  THERE    AND    BACK. 


"How  do  you  do,  mamma?"  she  said,  but  did 
not  come  within  a  couple  of  yards  of  her.  "I've 
had  such  a  ride — as  straight  as  any  crow  could  fly, 
between  the  two  stations  !  I  never  could  hit  the 
line  before.  But  I  got  a  country-fellow  to  point  me 
out  a  landmark  or  two,  and  here  I  am  in  just  half 
the  time  I  should  have  taken  by  the  road  !  Such 
jumps  !  " 

"You're  a  madcap!"  said  her  mother.  "You'll 
be  brought  home  on  a  shutter  some  day  !  Mark  my 
words,  Bab  !  You'll  see  ! — or  at  least  I  shall  ;  you'll 
be  past  seeing  !  But  it  don't  matter  ;  it"s  what  we're 
made  for  !  Die  or  be  killed,  it's  all  one  !  I  don't 
care  !  " 

"  I  do  though,  mamma  !  I  don't  want  to  be  killed 
just  yet — and  I  don't  mean  to  be  !  But  I  must  have 
a  second  horse  !  1  begin  to  suspect  Miss  Brown  of 
treating  me  like  a  child,  She  takes  care  of  me  !  I 
mean  to  let  her  see  what  /  can  do  if  she's  up  to  it !  " 

"You'll  do  nothing  of  the  kind!  Til  have  her  shot 
if  you  go  after  any  of  your  old  pranks  !  And,  while 
I  think  of  it,  Bab — your  father  has  set  his  heart  on 
your  marrying  Mr.  Lestrange  :  I  can  see  it  perfectly, 
and  I  won't  have  it !  If  I  hear  of  anything  of  that 
sort  between  you,  I'll  set  a  heavy  foot  on  it. — How 
long  have  you  been  there  this  time  ?  " 

"A  week. — But  why  shouldn't  I  marry  Mr. 
Lestrange  if  I  like .?  " 

"  Because  your  father  has  set  his  heart  on  it,  I  tell 
you  !  Isn"t  that  enough,  you  tiresome  little  wretch  } 
I  will  not  have  it — not  if  you  break  your  heart  over 
it  ! — There  !  " 

Barbara  burst  out  in  a  laugh  that  rang  like  a  bronze 
bell. 


MRS.    WILDER    AND    BARBARA. 


177 


"  Break  my  heart  for  Mr.  Lestrange  !  There's  not 
a  man  in  the  world  I  would  break  my  little  finger 
for  !  But  my  heart !  that  is  too  funny  !  You  needn't 
be  uneasy,  mamma  ;  I  don't  like  Arthur  Lestrange 
one  bit,  and  I  wouldn't  marry  him  if  you  and  papa 
too  wanted  me.  Oh,  such  a  proper  young  man  ! 
He  doesn't  think  me  fit  company  for  his  sister  I  " 

"  He  said  so  !  and  you  didn't  give  him  a  cut  over 
the  eyes  with  your  whip  ?     My  God  !  " 

"Gracious,  no!  He  never  says  anything  half  so 
amusing  !  He's  scorchingly  polite  !  I  would  sooner 
fall  in  love  with  the  bookbinder  !  " 

"The  bookbinder.?  Who's  that.?  You  mean  the 
tutor,  I  suppose  !  I'm  not  up  to  the  slang  of  this  old 
brute  of  a  country  !  " 

"  No,  mamma ;  there  is  a  man  binding — or  mend- 
ing rather,  the  books  in  the  library.  He's  going  to 
teach  me  to  shoe  Miss  Brown  !  Papa  wouldn't  like 
me  to  marry  a  blacksmith — I  mean  a  bookbinder — 
would  he  ?  " 

"Certainly  not." 

"Then  you  would,  mamma  ? "  said  Bab,  demurely, 
with  two  catherine-wheels  of  fun  in  her  downcast 
eyes. 

"If  you  go  to  do  anything  mad  now,  I'll " 

"  Don't  strain  your  innocent  invention,  mammy  ! 
I  think  I'll  take  Mr.  Lestrange  !  Better  anger  one 
than  both  of  you  !  " 

"Tease  me  any  more    with  your  nonsense,   and 
I'll  set  your  father  on  you  !     Be  off  with  you  !  " 
12 


CHAPTER  XX. 

BARBARA  AND  HER  CRITICS. 

While  the  two  talked  in  the  same  pulverous  fashion, 
the  words  came  very  differently  from  the  two  mouths. 
In  the  speech  of  the  mother  was  more  than  a  tone  of 
the  vulgarity  of  a  conscious  right  to  lay  down  the 
law,  of  the  rudeness  born  of  feeling  above  obedience 
and  incapable  of  error — a  rudeness  identical  with  that 
of  the  typical  vulgar  duchess  ;  the  daughter's  tone 
was  playful,  but  dainty  in  its  playfulness,  and  not 
without  a  certain  unconscious  dignity  ;  her  lawless- 
ness was  the  freedom  of  the  bird  that  cannot  trespass, 
not  that  of  the  quadruped  forcing  its  way.  Her  almost 
baby-like  cheeks,  her  musical  voice  clear  of  any  strain 
of  sorrow,  her  quick  relations  with  the  whole  world 
of  things,  her  grace,  more  child-like  than  womanly, 
whether  she  stood  or  sat  or  moved  about,  all  indicated 
a  simple,  fearless,  true  and  trusting  nature.  Every- 
body at  Mortgrange  liked  her  ;  nearly  everybody  at 
Mortgrange  had  some  different  fault  to  find  with  her; 
all  agreed  that  she  wanted  taming — except  Sir  Wilton, 
who  allowed  the  wildness,  but  would  not  hear  of  the 
taming.  The  hour  of  the  morning  or  the  night  at 
which  she  would  not  go  wandering  alone  about  the 
park,  or  even  outside  it,  had  not  yet  been  discovered. 

"Why  don't  you  look  better  after  your  friend 
Thco.?  "  said  her  father  one  day  when  Barbara's  chair 
was  empty  at  dinner-^with  his  cold  incisive  voice,  a 


SARBARA    AND    HER    CRITICS. 


179 


little  rasping  now  that  the  clutch  of  age's  hand  was 
beginning  to  close  on  his  throat. 

"She  doesn't  mind  me,  papa,"  Theodora  answered. 
"  Do  say  something  to  her,  mamma  !  " 

" 'Tis  not  my  business  to  reform  other  people's 
children,"  Lady  Ann  returned. 

"I  find  her  exceedingly  original!"  remarked  the 
baronet. 

"  In  her  manners,  certainly,"  responded  his  lady. 

' '  I  find  them  perfect.  Their  very  audacity  renders 
them  faultless.  And  the  charm  is  that  she  does  not 
even  suspect  herself  audacious." 

"That  is  her  charm,  I  confess,"  responded  Arthur ; 
"  but  it  is  a  dangerous  one,  and  may  one  day  cause 
her  to  be  sadly  misunderstood." 

"A  London  drawing-room  is  your  high  court  of 
parliament,  Arthur  !  "  said  his  father. 

"  Miss  Wylder,  with  all  her  sweetness,"  remarked 
Miss  Malliver,  "has  not  an  idea  of  social  distinction. 
She  cannot  understand  why  she  should  not  talk  to  any 
farmer's  man  or  dairymaid  she  happens  to  meet  !  It 
is  not  her  talking  to  them  I  mind  so  much  as  the 
familiar  way  she  does  it.  If  they  take  liberties,  it 
will  be  her  own  fault.  Any  groom  might  be  pardoned 
for  fancying  she  thought  him  as  good  as  herself!  " 

"But  she  does,"  answered  Theodora.  "Yester- 
day, I  found  her  talking  to  the  bookbinder  as  familiarl  y 
as  if  he  had  been  Arthur  !  " 

This  was  hardly  correct,  for  Barbara  talked  to  the 
bookbinder  with  a  deference  she  never  showed  Les- 
trange. 

"She  lacks  self-respect !  "  said  Lady  Ann.  "But 
we  must  deal  with  her  gently,  and  try  to  do  her  good. 
I  think    myself  there   is  not  much  amiss  with  her 


THERE    AND    BACK. 


beyond  love  of  her  own  way.      Her  dislike  of  restraint 
certainly  does  not  befit  a  communicant  !  " 

Lady  Ann  was  an  unfaltering-  church-goer,  rigidly 
decorous  in  rendering  what  she  imagined  God,  and 
knew  the  clergyman  expected,  and  as  rank  a  mam- 
mon-worshipper as  any  in  the  land. 

"  But  I  so  far  agree  with  Sir  Wilton,"  she  went  on, 
"  as  to  grant  that  her  manners  have  in  them  the  germ 
of  possible  distinction  ;  and  I  think  they  will  come  to 
be  all,  or  nearly  all,  that  could  be  desired.  We  ought 
at  least  to  give  her  the  advantage  of  any  doubt,  and 
do  what  we  can  to  lead' her  in  the  right  direction." 

"It's  a  fine  thing  to  go  to  church  and  have  your 
wits  sharpened  !  "  said  the  baronet,  with  an  ungenial 
laugh. 

Sir  Wilton  regarded  Lady  Ann  as  the  coldest-blooded 
and  most  selfish  woman  in  creation,  and  certainly  she 
was  not  less  selfish  and  was  colder-blooded  than  he. 
Full  of  his  own  importance  as  any  Pharisee — as  full 
as  he  could  be  without  making  himself  ridiculous,  he 
resented  the  slight  regard  she  showed  to  that  import- 
ance. He  believed  himself  wise  in  human  nature, 
when  in  truth  he  was  only  quick  to  read  in  another 
what  lay  within  the  limited  range  of  his  own  conscious- 
ness. Of  the  noble  in  humanity  he  knew  next  to  noth- 
ing. To  him  all  men  were  only  selfish.  The  cause, 
though  by  no  means  the  logical  ground  of  this  his  belief, 
was  his  own  ingrained  selfishness.  With  his  hazy  yet 
keen  cold  eye  he  was  quick  to  see  in  another,  and 
prompt  to  lay  to  his  charge,  the  faults  he  pardoned  in 
himself.  He  had  some  power  over  himself,  for  he 
very  seldom  went  into  a  rage  ;  but  he  kept  his  temper 
like  a  devil,  andwas  coldly  cruel.  His  wife  had  tamed 
him  a  good  deal,  without  in  the  least  reforming  him. 


5ARBARA    AND    HER    CRITICS. 


He  would  have  hated  her  quite,  but  for  the  sort  of 
respect  she  roused  in  him  by  surpassing  him  in  his 
own  kind.  He  cringed  to  her  with  a  sneer.  It  was 
long  since  he  had  learned  from  her  society  to  remem- 
ber, with  the  nearest  approach  to  compunction  of 
which  his  moth-eaten  heart  was  capable,  the  woman 
who  had  forsaken  her  own  rank  to  brave  the  perils 
of  his,  and  had  sunk  frozen  to  death  by  the  cold  of 
his  contact.  For  some  years  he  felt  far  more  friendly 
to  the  offspring  of  the  high-born  lady  than  to  that  of 
the  blacksmith's  daughter  ;  but  as  time  went  on,  and 
the  memory  of  the  more  plebeian  infant's  ugliness 
faded,  he  began  to  think  how  jolly  it  would  be — how 
it  would  serve  out  her  ladyship  and  her  brood  of 
icicles,  if  after  all  the  blacksmith's  grandson  turned 
up  to  oust  the  earl's.  He  grinned  as  he  lay  awake 
in  the  night,  picturing  to  himself  how  the  woman  in 
the  next  room  woul^  take  it.  Him  and  his  son  to- 
gether her  ladyship  might  find  almost  too  much  for 
her  !  But  for  many  years  he  had  indulged  in  no 
allusion  to  the  possible  improbable,  allowing  her  lady- 
ship to  refer  to  Arthur  as  the  heir  without  hinting  at 
the  uncertainty  of  his  position. 

Lady  Ann,  from  dwelling  on  what  she  counted 
the  shame  of  his  origin,  had  got  so  far  toward  per- 
suading herself  that  the  vanished  child  was  base- 
born,  that  she  scarcely  doubted  the  possibility,  were 
he  to  appear,  of  proving  his  claim  false,  and  origi- 
nated by  conspiracy.  Unable  to  learn  from  her  hus- 
band when  and  where  the  baby  was  baptized,  she 
concluded  that  he  had  never  been  baptized,  and  that 
there  was  no  record  of  his  birth.  As  the  years  went 
by,  and  nothing  was  heard  of  him,  she  grew  more 
and  more  confident.     Now  and  then  a  fear  would 


THERE    AND    BACK. 


cross  her,  but  she  always  succeeded  in  stifling  it — 
without,  however,  arriving  at  such  a  degree  of  cer- 
tainty, that  the  thought  of  the  child  had  no  share  in 
her  regard  for  the  wealthy  Barbara,  her  encourage- 
ment of  her  general  relations  with  the  family,  and 
her  connivance  at  her  frequent  and  prolonged  visits 
during  the  absence  of  herself  and  Sir  Wilton. 

She  was  now  returned,  and  had  found  everything 
as  she  left  it,  with  the  insignificant  difference  that 
the  bay  window  of  the  library  was  occupied  by  a 
man  at  work  repairing  the  books.  She  had  resumed 
the  reins  of  the  family-coach,  and  now  went  on  to 
play  the  part  of  a  good  providence,  and  drive  the 
said  coach  to  the  top  of  the  hill. 

Sir  Wilton,  I  have  said,  liked  Barbara.  She  amused 
him,  and  amusement  was  the  nearest  to  sunshine 
his  soul  was  capable  of  reaching.  All  his  weather 
else  was  gray,  with  a  touch  of  lurid  on  the  western 
horizon — of  which  he  was  not  weather-wise  enough 
to  take  heed.  He  had  been  at  school  with  Barbara's 
father,  but  did  not  like  her  any  better  for  that.  In 
youth  they  had  not  been  friends,  except  in  a  way 
that  brought  their  interesls  too  much  in  collision  for 
their  friendship  to  last.  It  had  ended  in  a  quiet  hate, 
each  knowing  too  well  how  much  the  other  knew  to 
dare  an  open  quarrel.  But  all  that  was  many  years 
away,  and  Tom  Wylder  had  been  long  abroad  and 
almost  forgotten.  Sir  Wilton,  notwithstanding,  ad- 
mired the  forgivingness  of  his  own  disposition  when 
he  found  himself  wondering  how  Tom  Wylder  would 
regard  an  alliance  with  his  old  rival.  Doubtless  he 
would  like  his  daughter  to  be  my  lady,  but  he  might 
be  looking  for  a  loftier  title  than  his  son  could  give 
her  I 


BARBARA    AND    HER    CRITICS.  1 83 

Sir  Wilton  was  incapable,  however,  of  taking  any- 
active  interest  in  the  matter.  The  well-being  of  his 
family,  when  he  himself  should  be  out  of  the  way, 
did  not  much  affect  him.  Nothing-  but  his  lower 
nature  had  ever  roused  him  to  action  of  any  kind. 
How  far  the  idea  of  betterment  had  ever  shown  itself 
to  him,  God  only  knows.  Apparently,  he  was  a 
child  of  the  evil  one,  whom  nothing  but  the  furnace 
could  cleanse.  Almost  the  only  thing  he  could  now 
imagine  giving  him  vivid  pleasure  was  to  see  his 
wife  thoroughly  annoyed. 

All  he  had  ever  had  of  the  manners  of  a  gentle- 
man, remained  with  him.  He  was  courteous  to 
ladies,  never  swore  in  their  presence — except  some- 
times in  a  mutter  at  his  wife,  and  could  upon  occasion 
show  a  kindness  that  cost  him  nothing.  Humanity 
was  not  all  dead  out  of  him  ;  neither  was  there  a 
purely  human  thought  in  him.  On  Barbara  he 
smiled  his  sweetest  smile  :  it  owed  most  of  its  sweet- 
ness to  the  dentist. 


CHAPTER  XXL 


THE    PARSON  S    PARABLE. 


Mr.  Wingfold  went  as  he  had  come,  thoughtful 
even  to  trouble.  What  was  to  be  done  for  the 
woman  ?  What  was  his  part,  as  parson  of  the  par- 
ish, with  regard  to  her  behavior  in  church  ?  Was  it 
or  was  it  not  his  part  to  take  public  notice  of  what 
she  intended,  if  not  as  a  defiance  to  God,  at  least  as 
an  open  expression  of  her  bitter  resentment  of  his 
dealing  with  her.?  The  Creator's  discipline  did  not 
suit  his  creature's^  taste,  and  she  would  let  him  know 
it  :  whether  it  suited  her  necessities,  she  did  not  ask  or 
care  ;  she  knew  nothing  of  her  necessities — only  of 
her  desires.  Had  she  had  a  suspicion  that  she  was 
an  eternal  creature,  poor  as  well  as  miserable,  blind 
and  naked  as  well  as  bereaved  and  angry,  she  might 
have  allowed  some  room  for  God  to  show  himself 
right.  But  she  was  ignorant  of  herself  as  any  sav- 
age. Was  Wingfold  to  take  her  insolence  in  church 
as  a  thing  done  to  himself,  which  he  must  endure 
with  patience.?  or,  putting  himself  out  of  the  question, 
and  regarding  her  conduct  only  as  a  protest  against 
the  ways  of  God  with  her,  must  he  leave  reproof  as 
well  as  vengeance  to  the  Lord  ?  Was  it  his  business, 
or  was  it  not,  to  rebuke  her,  and  make  his  rebuke  as 
open  as  her  offence  ?  It  troubled  him  almost  beyond 
bearing  to  think  that  some  of  his  flock  might  imagine 
that   the   great   lady   of  the  parish  was  allowed   to 


THE    parson's    parable.  1 85 

behave  herself  unseemly,  where  another  would  be 
exposed  to  shame.  But  how  abhorrent  to  him  was 
a  public  contention  in  the  church,  and  on  the  Lord's 
day  !  Mrs.  Wylder  was  just  the  woman  to  challenge 
forcible  expulsion,  and  make  the  circumstances  of  it 
as  flagrant  as  possible  !  She  might  even  use  both 
pistol  and  whip  !  What  better  opportunity  could  she 
find  for  giving  point  to  her  appeal  against  God !  A 
man  might,  in  the  rage  of  disappointment,  cry  out 
that  there  could  be  no  God  where  baffle  met  the 
holiest  instinct — that  blundering  chance  must  rule  ; 
he  might,  illogical  with  grief,  declare  that  as  God 
could  treat  him  so,  he  would  believe  in  him  no  longer  ; 
or  he  might  assert  that  an  evil  being,  not  a  good, 
was  at  the  heart  of  life — a  devil  and  not  a  God,  for 
he  was  one  who  created  and  forgot,  or  who  remem- 
bered and  did  not  care — who  quickened  exposure  but 
gave  no  shield  !  called  from  the  void  a  being  filled 
with  doorless  avenues  to  pain,  and  abandoned  him 
to  incarnate  cruelty,  that  he  might  make  him  sport 
with  the  wildness  of  his  dismay  !  but  here  w^as  a 
woman  who  did  not  say  that  God  was  not,  or  that 
he  was  not  good,  but  with  passionate  self-party- 
spirit  cried  out,  "  He  is  against  me  !  he  sides  with 
my  husband  !  He  is  not  my  friend,  but  his  :  I  will 
let  him  know  how  I  resent  his  unfairness  !  " 
Whether  God  was  good  or  bad  she  did  not  care — 
that  was  not  a  point  she  was  concerned  in  ;  all  she 
heeded  was  how  he  behaved  to  her — whether  he 
took  part  with  her  husband  or  herself.  He  had  torn 
from  her  the  desire  of  her  heart  and  left  her  desolate  : 
she  would  worship  him  no  longer  !  She  had  been 
brought  up  to  believe  there  was  a  God,  and  had 
never  doubted  his  existence  :    with  her  whole  will 


I  86  THERE    AND    BACK. 


and  passion  she  opposed  that  which  she  called  God. 
She  had  never  learned  to  yield  when  wrong,  and  now 
she  was  sure  she  was  right.  Though  hopeless  she 
resisted.  She  cried  out  against  God,  but  believed 
Him  by  his  own  act  helpless  to  deliver  her,  for 
what  could  He  do  against  the  grave  ?  Powerless  for 
her  as  unfriendly  toward  her,  why  should  she  wor- 
ship him.'*  Why  should  she  pay  court  to  one  who 
neither  would  nor  could  give  her  what  she  wanted  ? 
What  was  he  God  for  .-*  Was  she  to  go  to  his  house, 
and  carry  herself  courteously,  as  if  he  were  her 
friend  !  She  would  not  !  And  that  there  might  be 
no  mistake  as  to  how  she  regarded  him,  she  would 
sit  in  her  pew  and  read  her  novel,  while  the  friends 
of  God  said  their  prayers  to  him  !  If  she  annoyed 
them,  so  much  the  better,  for  the  surer  she  might 
hope  that  he  was  annoyed. 

It  may  seem  to  some  incredibly  terrible  that  one 
should  believe  in  God  and  defy  him  !  But  do  none 
of  us,  who  say  also  we  believe  in  God,  and  who  are 
far  from  defying  him,  ever  behave  like  Mrs.  Wylder.? 
It  is  one  thing  to  believe  in  a  God;  it  is  quite  another 
to  believe  in  God  !  Every  time  we  grumble  at  our 
fate,  every  time  we  are  displeased,  hurt,  resentful  at 
this  or  that  which  comes  to  us,  every  time  we  do  not 
receive  the  suffering  sent  us  "with  both  hands,"  as 
William  Law  says,  we  are  of  the  same  spirit  with 
this  half-crazy  woman.  In  some  fashion,  and  that 
a  real  one,  she  must  have  believed  in  the  God  against 
whom  she  urged  her  complaint ;  and  it  is  rather  to 
her  praise  that,  like  Job,  she  did  it  openly,  and  not 
with  mere  base  grumblings  in  her  heart  at  her  fire- 
side. It  is  mean  to  believe  half-way,  to  believe  in 
words,  and  in  action  deny.     One  of  four  gates  stands 


THE    parson's    parable.  1 87 

open  to  us  :  to  deny  the  existence  of  God,  and  say 
we  can  do  without  him  ;  to  acknowledge  his  exist- 
ence, but  say  he  is  not  good,  and  act  as  true  men 
resisting  a  tyrant;  to  say,  "I  would  there  were  a 
God,"  and  be  miserable  because  there  is  none ;  or  to 
say  there  must  be  a  God,  and  he  must  be  perfect  in 
goodness  or  he  could  not  be,  and  give  ourselves  up 
to  him  heart  and  soul  and  hands  and  history. 

But  what  was  parson  Wingfold  to  do  in  the  matter? 
Was  he  to  allow  the  simple  sheep  of  his  flock  to 
think  him  afraid  of  the  squire's  lady .''  or  was  he  to 
venture  an  uproar  in  the  church  on  a  Sunday  morn- 
ing.? His  wife  and  he  had  often  talked  the  thing 
over,  but  had  arrived  at  no  conclusion.  He  went  to 
her  now,  and  told  her  all  that  had  passed. 

"  Isn't  it  time  to  do  something.?"  she  said. 

"Indeed  I  think  so — but  what.?"  he  answered. 
"I  wish  you  would  show  me  what  I  ought  to  do  ! 
Let  me  see  it,  and  I  will  do  it." 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment. 

"Couldn't  you  preach  at  her.?"  she  said,  with  a 
laugh  in  which  was  an  odd  mingling  of  doubt  and 
merriment. 

"I  have  always  thought  that  a  mean  thing,  and 
have  never  done  it — except  by  dwelling  on  broadest 
principles.  That  an  evil  principle  has  an  advocate 
present,  is  no  reason  for  sparing  it  :  what  am  I  there 
for?  But  to  preach  that  the  many  may  turn  on  the 
one — that  I  never  could  do!  " 

"  This  case  is  different  from  any  other.  The 
wrong  is  done  continuously,  in  the  very  eyes  of  the 
congregation,  and  for  the  sake  of  its  being  seen," 
Mrs.  Wingfold  answered.  "  Neither  would  you  be 
the  assailant ;  you  would  but  accept,  not  give  the 


laa  THERE    AND    BACK. 

challenge.  For  I  don't  know  how  many  Sundays, 
she  has  been  pitting  her  position  in  the  pew  against 
yours  in  the  pulpit  !  Believing  it  out  of  your  power 
to  do  anything,  she  flaunts  her  French  novel  in  your 
face  ;  and  those  that  can't  see  her,  see  her  yellow 
novel  in  your  eyes,  and  think  about  her  and  you, 
instead  of  the  things  you  are  saying  to  them  !  For 
the  sake  of  the  work  given  you,  for  the  sake  of 
your  influence  with  the  people,  you  must  do  some- 
thing ! " 

"It  is  God  she  defies,  not  me." 

"  I  think  she  defies  you  to  say  an  honest  word  on 
his  behalf.  Your  silence  must  seem  to  her  an  ac- 
knowledgment that  she  is  right." 

"That  cannot  be,  after  what  I  have  said  to  her 
more  than  once  in  her  own  house." 

"  Then  at  least  she  must  think  that  either  you 
have  no  authority  to  drive  from  the  little  temple  one 
of  the  cows  of  Bashan,  or  are  afraid  of  her  horns." 

"  Quite  right,  Nelly  !  "  cried  the  rector  ;  "  you  are 
quite  right.  Only  you  don't  give  me  a  hint  what  to 
do!" 

"  Am  I  not  saying  as  plain  as  I  can  that  you  must 
preach  at  her  .?  " 

"  H"m  !     I  didn't  expect  that  of  you  !  " 

"No  ;  for  if  you  could  have  expected  it  of  me, 
you  would  have  thought  of  it  yourself!  But  just 
think  !  A  public  scandal  requires  public  treatment. 
You  will  not  be  dragging  her  before  the  people;  she 
has  put  herself  there  I  She  is  brazen,  and  must  be 
treated  as  brazen — set  in  the  full  glare  of  opinion. 
And  I  think,  if  I  were  a  clergyman,  I  should  know 
how  to  do  it  !  " 

Wingfold  was  silent.     She  must  be  right  !     Some- 


THE    parson's    parable.  1 89 

thing  glimmered  before  him — something  possible — 
he  could  not  see  plainly  what. 

"  It  is  all  very  well  to  make  such  a  clamor  about 
her  boy,"  continued  his  wife,  "  but  every  one  knows 
that  she  quarrelled  with  him  dreadfully — that  for 
days  at  a  time  they  would  be  cat  and  dog  with  each 
other.  Her  animal  instinct  lasted  it  out,  and  she  did 
not  come  to  hate  him  ;  but  I  can't  help  thinking  it 
must  have  been  in  a  great  measure  because  her  hus- 
band favored  the  other  that  she  took  up  this  one  with 
such  passion.  I  have  been  told  she  would  abuse 
him  in  language  not  fit  to  repeat,  the  little  wretch 
answering  her  back,  and  choking  with  rage  that  he 
could  not  tear  her." 

"Who  told  you  ?  "  asked  the  parson. 

"  I  would  rather  not  say." 

"  Are  you  sure  it  is  not  mere  gossip  .-*  " 

"Quite  sure.  To  be  gossip,  a  thing  must  go 
through  two  mouths  at  least,  and  I  had  it  first- 
mouth.  I  tell  it  you  because  I  think  it  worth  your 
knowing." 

The  next  Sunday  morning,  there  lay  the  lady  as 
usual,  only  her  novel  was  a  red  one.  When  the 
parson  went  into  the  pulpit,  he  cast  one  glance  on 
the  gallery  to  his  right,  then  spoke  thus  : — 

"My  friends,  I  will  follow  the  example  of  our 
Lord,  and  speak  to  you  to-day  in  a  parable.  The 
Lord  said  there  are  things  better  spoken  in  parables, 
because  of  the  eyes  that  will  not  see,  and  the  ears 
that  will  not  hear. 

"There  was  once  a  mother  left  alone  with  her 
little  boy — the  only  creature  in  the  world  or  out  of  it 
that  she  cared  for.  She  was  a  good  mother  to  him,  as 
good  a  mother  as  you  can  think,  never  overbearing 


190  THERE    AND    BACK. 


or  unkind.  She  never  thought  of  herself,  but  always 
of  the  desire  of  her  heart,  the  apple  of  her  eye,  her 
son  born  of  her  own  body.  It  was  not  because  of 
any  return  he  could  make  her  that  she  loved  him. 
It  was  not  to  make  him  feel  how  good  she  was,  that 
she  did  everything-  for  him.  It  was  not  to  give  him 
reasons  for  loving  her,  but  because  she  loved  him, 
and  because  he  needed  her.  He  was  a  delicate 
child,  requiring  every  care  she  could  lavish  upon 
him,  and  she  did  lavish  it.  Oh,  how  she  loved  him  ! 
She  would  sit  with  the  child  in  her  lap  from  morning 
till  night,  gazing  on  him  ;  she  always  went  to  sleep 
with  him  in  her  bosom — as  close  to  her  as  ever  he 
could  lie.  When  she  woke  in  the  dark  night,  her 
first  movement  was  to  strain  him  closer,  her  next  to 
listen  if  he  was  breathing — for  he  might  have  died 
and  been  lost !  When  he  looked  up  at  her  with  eyes 
of  satisfaction,  she  felt  all  her  care  repaid. 

"The  years  went  on,  and  the  child  grew,  and  the 
mother  loved  him  more  and  more.  But  he  did  not 
love  her  as  she  loved  him.  He  soon  began  to  care 
for  the  things  she  gave  him,  but  he  did  not  learn  to 
love  the  mother  who  gave  them.  Now  the  whole 
good  of  things  is  to  be  the  messengers  of  love — to 
carry  love  from  the  one  heart  to  the  other  heart  ;  and 
when  these  messengers  are  fetched  instead  of  sent, 
grasped  at,  that  is,  by  a  greedy,  ungiving  hand,  they 
never  reach  the  heart,  but  block  up  the  path  of  love, 
and  divide  heart  from  heart ;  so  that  the  greedy 
heart  forgets  the  love  of  the  giving  heart  more  and 
more,  and  all  by  the  things  it  gives.  That  is  the 
way  generosity  fares  with  the  ungenerous.  The  boy 
would  be  very  pleasant  to  his  mother  so  long  as  he 
thought  to  get  something  from  her ;  but  when  he 


THE    PARSONS    PARABLE.  I9I 

had  got  what  he  wanted,  he  would  forget  her  until 
he  wanted  something  more. 

"There  came  at  last  a  day  when  she  said  to  him, 
'  Dear  boy,  I  want  you  to  go  and  fetch  me  some 
medicine,  for  I  feel  very  poorly,  and  am  afraid  I  am 
going  to  be  ill  !  '  He  mounted  his  pony,  and  rode 
away  to  get  the  medicine.  Now  his  mother  had 
told  him  to  be  very  careful,  because  the  medicine 
was  dangerous,  and  he  must  not  open  the  bottle  that 
held  it.  But  when  he  had  it,  he  said  to  himself,  '  I 
dare  say  it  is  something  very  nice,  and  mother  does 
not  want  me  to  have  any  of  it  ! '  So  he  opened  the 
bottle  and  tasted  what  was  in  it,  and  it  burned  him 
terribly.  Then  he  was  furious  with  his  mother,  and 
said  she  had  told  him  not  to  open  the  bottle  just  to 
make  him  do  it,  and  vowed  he  would  not  go  back 
to  her  !  He  threw  the  bottle  from  him,  and  turned, 
and  rode  another  way,  until  he  found  himself  alone 
in  a  wild  forest,  where  was  nothing  to  eat,  and 
nothing  to  shelter  him  from  the  cold  night,  and  the 
wind  blew  through  the  trees,  and  made  strange 
noises.  He  dismounted,  afraid  to  ride  in  the  dark, 
and  before  he  knew,  his  pony  was  gone.  Then  he 
began  to  be  miserably  frightened,  and  to  wish  he 
had  not  run  away.  But  still  he  blamed  his  mother, 
who  might  have  known,  he  said,  that  he  would  open 
the  bottle. 

"The  mother  got  very  uneasy  about  her  boy,  and 
went  out  to  look  for  him.  The  neighbors  too,  though 
he  was  not  a  nice  boy,  and  none  but  his  mother  liked 
him,  went  out  also,  for  they  would  gladly  find  him 
and  take  him  home  to  her  ;  and  they  came  at  last  to 
the  wood,  with  their  torches  and  lanterns. 

"The  boy  was  lying  under  a  tree,  and  saw  the 


192  THERE    AND    BACK. 


lights,  and  heard  the  voices,  and  knew  it  was  his 
mother  come.  Then  the  old  wickedness  rose  up 
fresh  in  his  heart,  and  he  said  to  himself:  'She  shall 
have  trouble  yet  before  she  finds  me  !  Am  I  to  come 
and  go  as  she  pleases  ? '  He  lay  very  still ;  and 
when  he  saw  them  coming  near,  crept  farther,  and 
again  lay  still.  Thus  he  went  on  doing,  and  so 
avoided  his  saviours.  He  heard  one  say  there  were 
wolves  in  the  wood,  for  that  was  the  sound  of  them  ; 
but  he  was  just  the  kind  of  boy  that  will  not  believe, 
but  thinks  every  one  has  a  purpose  of  his  own  in 
saying  this  or  that.  So  he  slipped  and  slipped  away 
until  at  length  all  despaired  of  finding  him,  and  left 
the  wood. 

"  Suddenly  he  knew  that  he  was  again  alone.  He 
gave  a  great  shriek,  but  no  one  heard  it.  He  stood 
quaking  and  listening.  Presently  his  pony  came 
rushing  past  him,  with  two  or  three  wolves  behind 
him.  He  started  to  his  feet  and  began  to  run,  wild 
to  get  out  of  the  wood.  But  he  could  not  find  the 
way,  and  ran  about  this  way  and  that  until  utter 
despair  came  down  upon  him,  and  all  he  could  do 
was  to  lie  still  as  a  mouse  lest  the  wolves  should 
hear  him. 

"  And  as  he  lay  he  began  at  last  to  think  that  he 
was  a  wicked  child  ;  that  his  mother  had  done  every- 
thing to  make  him  good,  and  he  would  not  be  good  ; 
and  now  he  was  lost,  and  the  wolves  alone  would 
find  him  !  He  sank  at  last  into  a  stupor,  and  lay 
motionless,  with  death  and  the  wolves  after  him. 

"  He  came  to  himself  in  the  arms  of  a  strange 
woman,  who  had  taken  him  up,  and  was  carrying 
him  home. 

' '  The  name  of  the  woman  was  Sorrow — a  wander- 


THE    PARSONS    PARABLE.  1 93 

ing  woman,  a  kind  of  gypsy,  always  going  about 
the  world,  and  picking  up  lost  things.  Nobody  likes 
her,  hardly  anybody  is  civil  to  her  ;  but  when  she 
has  set  anybody  down  and  is  gone,  there  is  often  a 
look  of  affection  and  wonder  and  gratitude  sent  after 
her.  For  all  that,  however,  very  few  are  glad  to  be 
found  by  her  again. 

"  Sorrow  carried  him  weeping  home  to  his  mother. 
His  mother  came  out,  and  took  him  in  her  arms. 
Sorrow  made  her  courtesy,  and  went  away.  The 
boy  clung  to  his  mother's  neck,  and  said  he  was 
sorry.  In  the  midst  of  her  joy  his  mother  wept 
bitterly,  for  he  had  nearly  broken  her  heart.  She 
could  not  get  the  wolves  out  of  her  mind. 

"But,  alas!  the  boy  forgot  all,  and  was  worse 
than  ever.  He  grew  more  and  more  cruel  to  his 
mother,  and  mocked  at  every  word  she  said  to  him  ; 
so  that " 

There  came  a  cry  from  the  gallery.  The  congre- 
gation started  in  sudden  terror  to  their  feet.  The 
rector  stopped,  and  turning  to  the  right,  stood 
gazing.  In  the  front  of  the  squire's  pew  stood  Mrs. 
Wylder,  white,  and  speechless  with  rage.  For  a 
moment  she  stood  shaking  her  fist  at  the  preacher. 
Then,  in  a  hoarse  broken  voice,  came  the  words — 

"It's  a  lie.  My  boy  was  never  cruel  to  me.  It's 
a  wicked  lie." 

She  could  say  no  more,  but  stood  and  glared,  hate 
in  her  fierce  eyes,  and  torture  in  her  colorless  face. 

"Madam,  you  have  betrayed  yourself,"  said  the 
rector,  solemnly.  "  If  your  son  behaved  well  to  you, 
it  makes  it  the  worse  in  you  to  behave  ill  to  your 
Father.  From  Sunday  to  Sunday  you  insult  him 
with  rude  behavior.  I  tell  you  so  in  the  face  of  this 
13 


194 


THERE    AND    BACK. 


congregation,  which  knows  it  as  well  as  I.  Hither- 
to I  have  held  my  tongue — from  no  fear  of  the  rich, 
from  no  desire  to  spare  them  deserved  disgrace  in  the 
eyes  of  the  poor,  but  because  I  shrank  from  making 
the  house  of  God  a  place  of  contention.  Madam, 
you  have  behaved  shamefully,  and  I  do  my  duty  in 
rebuking  you." 

The  whole  congregation  were  on  their  feet,  staring 
at  her.  A  moment  she  stood,  and  would  have  braz- 
ened out  the  stare.  But  she  felt  the  eyes  of  the 
motionless  hundreds  blazing  upon  her,  and  the  cul- 
prit soul  grew  nakedinthe  presence  of  judging  souls. 
Her  nerve  gave  way  ;  she  turned  her  back,  left  the 
pew,  and  fled  from  the  church  by  the  squire's  door, 
into  the  grounds  of  Wylder  Hall. 

Happily  Barbara  was  not  in  the  church  that 
morning. 

The  next  Sunday  the  squire's  pew  was  empty.  The 
red  volume  lay  open  on  its  face  upon  the  floor  of  it. 

Wingfold's  dear  plot  had  palled.  He  had  rough- 
hewed  his  end,  but  the  divinity  had  shaped  it. 

When  the  squire  came  to  know  what  had  taken 
place,  he  made  his  first  call  on  the  rector.  He  said 
nothing  about  his  wife,  but  plainly  wished  it  under- 
stood that  he  bore  him  no  ill  will  for  what  he  had 
done. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

THE    RIME    OF    THE    ANCIENT    MARINER. 

The  rector  had  often  wished  his  wife  could  in  some 
natural  way  get  hold  of  Miss  Wylder ;  he  suspected 
something  exceptionally  fine  in  her  :  how  else  could 
she,  with  such  a  father  and  such  a  mother,  have  such 
a  countenance  ?  There  must  be  a  third  factor  in  the  * 
affair,  and  one  worth  knowing — namely,  herself  ! 
That  she  seemed  to  avoid  being  reckoned  among 
church-goers  might  be  a  point  in  her  favor !  What 
reports  reached  him  of  her  wild  ways,  mingled  with 
exaggerated  stories  of  her  lawlessness,  did  not  shock 
him  :  what  was  true  in  them  might  spring  from  mere 
exuberance  of  life,  whose  joy  was  her  only  law — 
and  yet  a  real  law  to  her  ! 

He  had  had  no  opportunity  of  learning  either  how 
peculiar  the  girl  was,  or  how  capable.  She  was  not 
yet  up  to  his  teaching  ;  she  had  to  have  other  water 
to  drink  first,  and  was  now  approaching  a  source  that 
might  have  caused  him  anxiety  for  her,  had  he  ever 
so  little  believed  in  chance.      But  a  shepherd  is  none  \/ 

the  less  a  true  shepherd  that  he  leaves  plenty  of 
liberty  to  the  lamb  to  pick  its  own  food.  That  its 
best  instincts  may  not  be  to  the  taste  either  of  its 
natural  guardians  or  the  public,  is  nothing  against 
those  instincts.  Without  appearing  to  their  guardians 
both  strange  and  headstrong,  some  sheep  would 
never  get  near  the  food  necessary  to  keep  them  alive. 


196  THERE    AND    BACK. 


Confined  to  the  provender  even  their  shepherds  would 
have  them  contented  withal,  many  would  die.  Some- 
times, to  escape  from  the  arid  wastes  of  "society," 
haunted  with  the  cries  of  its  spiritual  greengrocers, 
and  find  the  pasture  on  which  their  souls  can  live, 
they  have  to  die,  and  climb  the  grassy  slopes  of  the 
heavenly  hills. 

Barbara  had  as  yet  had  no  experience  of  pain — or 
of  more  at  least  than  came  from  sympathy  with 
suffering — a  sympathy  which  though  ready,  could 
hardly  be  deep  in  one  who  had  never  had  a  headache 
herself.  To  all  dumb  suffering  things  she  was  very 
gentle  and  pitiful;  but  her  pity  was  like  that  of  a  child 
over  her  doll. 

She  was  always  glad  to  get  away  from  home. 
While  her  father  was  paying  his  long-delayed  visit  to 
the  rector,  she  was  flying  over  hedge  and  ditch  and 
rail,  in  a  line  for  that  gate  of  Mortgrange  which 
Simon  Armour  and  his  grandson  found  open  when 
first  the  former  took  the  latter  to  see  the  place  ;  Bar- 
bara had  a  key  to  it. 

She  went  with  swift,  gliding  step,  like  that  of  a  red 
Indian,  into  the  library.  Richard  was  piecing  the 
broken  cords  of  a  great  old  folio — the  more  easily 
that  they  were  double — in  order  to  re-attach  the  loos- 
ened sheets  and  the  hanging  board,  and  so  get  the 
book  ready  for  a  new  cover.  She  carried  in  her  hand 
something  yet  more  sorely  in  need  of  mending — a 
pigeon  with  a  broken  wing,  which  she  had  seen  ly- 
ing in  the  park,  and  had  dismounted  to  take.  It  kept 
opening  and  shutting  its  eyes,  and  she  knew  that 
nothing  could  be  done  for  it ;  but  the  mute  appeal  of 
the  dying  thing  had  gone  to  her  heart,  and  she 
wanted  sympathy,  whether  for  it  or  for  herself  she 


THE    RIME    OF    THE    ANCIENT    MARINER.  1 97 

could  hardly  have  distinguished.  How  she  came  to 
wake  a  little  more  just  then,  I  cannot  tell,  but  the  fact 
is  a  joint  in  her  history.  The  jar  to  the  pigeon's  life 
affected  her  as  a  catastrophe.  She  felt  that  there  a 
crisis  had  come  :  a  living  conscious  thing  could  do 
nothing  for  its  own  life,  and  lay  helpless.  Say  rather 
— seemed  so  to  lie.  Oh,  surely  it  is  in  reason  that 
not  a  sparrow  should  fall  to  the  ground  without  the 
Father  !  To  whom  but  the  father  of  the  children  that 
bemoan  its  fate,  should  the  children  carry  his  sparrow  ? 
But  Barbara  was  carrying  her  pigeon  where  was  no 
help  for  the  heart  of  either. 

"Ah,  poor  thing,"  said  Richard,  "I  fear  we  can 
do  nothing  for  it !  But  it  will  be  at  rest  soon  !  It  is 
fast  going." 

"Ah!  but  where.?"  said  Barbara,  to  whom  that 
moment  came  the  question  for  the  first  time. 

"Nowhere,"  answered  Richard. 

"  How  can  that  he?  If  I  were  going,  I  should  be 
going  somewhere  !  I  couldn't  go  nowhere  if  I  tried 
ever  so.  I  don't  like  you  to  say  it  is  going  nowhere  ! 
Poor  little  thing  !     I  won't  let  you  go  nowhere  !  " 

"Weill"  returned  Richard,  a  little  bewildered, 
"what  would  you  have  me  say.?  You  know  what 
I  mean  !     It  is  going  not  to  be,  that  is  all." 

"That  is  all  \  How  would  you  like  to  be  told  you 
were  going  nowhere — going  not  to  be — that  was 
all .? " 

Richard  saw  that  to  declare  abruptly  his  belief  that 
he  was  himselfas  much  going  nowhere  as  any  pigeon 
that  ever  died,  would  probably  be  to  close  the  door 
between  them.  At  the  same  time,  if  he  left  her  to 
imagine  that  he  expected  life  for  himself,  but  not  for 
the  animals,  she  must  think  him  selfish  !     Unwilling 


THERE    AND    BACK. 


therefore  to  answer,  he  took  refuge  in  his  genuine 
sympathy  with  suffering. 

"  Is  it  not  strange,"  he  said,  and  would  have  taken 
from  her  hands  the  wounded  bird,  but  she  would  not 
part  with  it,  "that  men  should  take  pleasure  in  kill- 
ing— especially  a  creature  like  that,  so  full  of  inno- 
cent content  ?  It  seems  to  me  the  greatest  pity  to  stop 
such  a  life  !  " 

As  he  spoke  there  came  upon  him  the  dim  sense  of 
a  foaming  reef  or  argument  ahead — such  as  this  : 
"Then  there  ought  to  be  no  death  !  And  what  ought 
not  to  be,  cannot  be  !  But  there  is  death  :  what  then 
is  death.?  If  it  be  a  stopping  of  life,  then  that  is  which 
cannot  be.  But  it  may  be  only  a  change  in  the  form 
of  life  that  looks  like  a  stopping,  and  is  not  !  If 
Death  be  stronger  than  Life,  so  that  he  stops  life, 
how  then  was  Life  able  so  to  flout  him,  that  he,  the 
thing  "that  was  not,  arose  from  the  antenatal  sepul- 
chre on  which  Death  sat  throned  in  impotent  nega- 
tion of  entity,  unable  to  preclude  existence,  and  yet 
able  to  annihilate  it  ?  Life  alone  is  ;  nothingness  is 
not ;  Death  cannot  destroy  ;  he  is  not  the  antagonist, 
not  the  opposite  of  life."  Some  such  argument  Rich- 
ard, I  say,  saw  vaguely  through  the  gloom  ahead, 
and  began  to  beat  to  windward. 

"  Did  you  ever  notice,"  he  said,  "  in  The  Rime  of 
the  Ancient  Mariner,  the  point  at  which  the  dead  bird 
falls  from  the  neck  of  the  man  .?  " 

It  was  a  point,  however,  at  which  neither  he  nor 
Barbara  was  capable  of  seeing  the  depth  of  the  poem. 
Richard  thought  it  was  the  new-born  love  of  beauty 
that  freed  the  mariner  ;  he  did  not  see  that  it  was  the 
love  of  life,  the  new-born  sympathy  with  life. 

"I  don't  even  know  what  you   are  talking   of," 


THE    RIME    OF    THE    ANCIENT    MARINER.  1 99 

answered  Barbara.  "Do  tell  me.  It  sounds  like 
something-  wonderful  !     Is  it  a  story  .''  " 

"Yes — a  wonderful  story." 

Richard  had  not  attempted  to  understand  Cole- 
ridge's philosophy,  taking-  it  for  quite  obsolete  ;  and 
it  was  but  doubtfully  that  he  had  made  trial  of  his 
poems.  Happily  choosing-  Chrisiabel,  however,  for  a 
tasting-piece,  he  was  immediately  enchanted  and  ab- 
sorbed ;  and  never  again  had  he  been  so  keenly  aware 
of  disappointment  as  when  he  came  to  the  end,  and 
found,  as  an  Irishman  might  say,  that  it  was  not 
there  :  a  lump  gathered  in  his  throat ;  he  flung  the 
book  from  him,  and  it  was  a  week  before  he  could 
open  it  again. 

The  next  poem  he  tried  was  The  Rime  of  the  Ancient 
Mariner,  which  he  read  with  almost  equal  delight,  be- 
witched with  many  an  individual  phrase,  with  the 
melody  unique  of  many  a  stanza,  with  the  strange- 
ness of  its  speech,  with  the  loveliness  of  its  real,  and 
the  wildness  of  its  invented  pictures.  But  he  had  not 
yet  discovered,  or  even  begun  to  foresee  the  marvel 
of  its  whole.  A  man  must  know  something  of  repent- 
ance before  he  can  understand  The  Rime  of  the  Ancient 
Mariner, 

The  volume  containing  it  had  come  into  his  hands 
as  one  of  a  set  his  father  had  to  bind.  It  belonged 
to  a  worshipper  of  Coleridge,  who  had  possessed 
himself  of  every  edition  of  every  book  he  had  written, 
or  had  had  a  share  in  writing.  There  he  read  first 
the  final  form  oi The  Rime  as  it  appeared  in  the  Sibyl- 
line Leaves  of  1817  :  when  he  came  to  look  at  that  in 
i\\e  Lyrical  Ballads,  published  in  1798,  he  found  dif- 
ferences many  and  great  between  the  two.  He  found 
also  in  the  set  an  edition  with  a  form  of  the  poem 


THERE    AND    BACK. 


differing  considerably  from  the  last  as  well  as  the 
first.  He  had  brought  together  and  compared  all 
these  forms  of  the  poem,  noting  every  minutest  varia- 
tion— a  mode  of  study  which,  in  the  case  of  a  master- 
piece, richly  repays  the  student.  It  was  no  wonder, 
therefore,  that  Richard  had  almost  every  word  of  it 
on  the  very  tip  of  his  tongue. 

He  began  to  repeat  the  ballad,  and  went  on,  never 
for  a  moment  intermitting  his  work.  Without  the 
least  attempt  at  what  is  called  recitation,  of  which 
happily  he  knew  nothing,  he  made  both  sense  and 
music  tell,  saying  it  as  if  he  were  for  the  hundredth 
time  reading  it  aloud  for  his  own  delight.  If  his 
pronunciation  was  cockneyish,  it  was  but  a  little  so. 

The  very  first  stanza  took  hold  of  Barbara.  She 
sat  down  by  Richard's  table,  softly  laid  the  dying 
bird  in  her  lap,  and  listened  with  round  eyes  and 
parted  lips,  her  rapt  soul  sitting  in  her  ears. 

But  Richard  had  not  gone  far  before  he  hesitated, 
his  memory  perplexed  between  the  differing  editions. 

"Have  you  forgotten  it.-*  I  am  so  sorry!''  said 
Barbara.  "  It  ts  wonderful — not  like  anything  I  ever 
heard,   or  saw,   or  tasted    before.      It   smells   like  a 

New  Zealand  flower  called "     Here  she  said  a 

word  Richard  had  never  heard,  and  could  never  re- 
member. "I  don't  wonder  at  your  liking  books  if 
you  find  things  in  them  of  that  sort  !  " 

"I've  not  exactly  forgotten  it,"  answered  Richard; 
"  but  I've  copied  out  different  editions  for  compari- 
son, and  they've  got  a  little  mixed  in  my  head." 

"But  surely  the  printers,  with  all  their  blunders 
and  changes,  can't  keep  you  from  seeing  what  the 
author  wrote  !  '' 

"The  editions  I  mean  are  those  of  the  author  him- 


THE    RIME    OF    THE    ANCIENT    MARINER.  20I 

self.  He  kept  making  changes,  some  of  them  very- 
great  changes.  Not  many  people  know  the  poem  as 
Coleridge  first  published  it." 

"Coleridge     Who  was  he?" 

"The  man  that  wrote  the  poem." 

"Oh!     He  altered  it  afterwards .?  " 

"  Yes,  very  much." 

"  Did  he  make  it  better  ?  " 

"  Much  better." 

"Then  why  should  you  care  any  more  for  the  first 
way  of  it  ?  " 

"Just  because  it  is  different.  A  thing  not  so  good 
may  have  a  different  goodness.  A  man  may  not 
be  so  good  as  another  man,  and  yet  have  some 
good  things  in  him  the  other  has  not.  That  im- 
plies that  not  every  change  he  made  was  for  the 
better.  And  where  he  has  put  a  better  phrase,  or 
passage,  the  former  may  yet  be  good.  So  you  see  a 
new  form  may  be  much  better,  and  yet  the  old  form 
remain  much  too  good  to  be  partted  with.  In  any 
case  it  is  intensely  interesting  to  see  how  and  why 
he  changed  a  thing  or  its  shape,  and  to  ponder 
wherein  it  is  for  the  better  or  the  worse.  That  is  to 
take  it  like  a  study  in  natural  history.  In  that  we 
learn  how  an  animal  grows  different  to  meet  a 
difference  in  the  supply  of  its  needs  ;  in  the  varying 
editions  of  a  poem  we  see  how  it  alters  to  meet  a 
new  requirement  of  the  poet's  mind.  I  don't  mean 
the  cases  are  parallel,  but  they  correspond  somehow. 
If  I  were  a  schoolmaster,  I  should  make  my  p^ipils 
compare  different  forms  of  the  same  poem,  and  find 
out  why  the  poet  made  the  changes.  That  would  do 
far  more  for  them,  I  think,  than  comparing  poets 
with  each  other.     The  better  poets  are — that  is,  the 


202  THERE    AND    BACK. 

more  original  they  are — the  less  there  is  in  them  to 
compare." 

"But  I  want  to  hear  the  rest  of  the  story.  Never 
mind  the  differences  in  the  telling  of  it." 

"I'm  afraid  I  can't  get  into  the  current  of  it 
now." 

"You  can  look  at  the  book  !  It  must  be  some- 
where among  all  these  !  " 

"No  doubt.  But  I  haven't  time  to  look  for  it 
now." 

"It  won't  take  you  a  minute  to  find  it." 

"  I  must  not  leave  my  work." 

"  It  wouldn't  cost  you  more  than  one  tiny  minute  !  " 
pleaded  Barbara  like  a  child. 

"Let  me  explain  to  you,  miss: — I  find  the  only 
way  to  be  sure  I  don't  cheat,  is  to  know  I  haven't 
stopped  an  instant  to  do  anything  for  myself.  Some- 
times I  have  stopped  for  a  while  ;  and  then  when 
I  wanted  to  make  up  the  time,  I  couldn't  be  quite 
sure  how  mucl'  I  owed,  and  that  made  me  give 
more  than  I  needed — which  I  didn't  like  when  I  would 
gladly  have  been  doing  something  else.  When  the 
time  is  my  own,  it  is  of  far  more  value  to  me  for  the 
insides  than  to  my  employer  for  the  outsides  of  the 
books.  So  you  see,  for  my  own  sake  as  well  as  his, 
I  cannot  stop  till  my  time  is  up." 

"That  is  being  honest !  " 

"Who  can  consent  to  be  dishonest!  It  is  the 
meanest  thing  to  undertake  work  and  then  imagine 
you  show  spirit  by  shirking  what  you  can  of  it. 
There's  a  lot  of  fellows  like  that !  I  would  as  soon 
pick  a  pocket  as  undertake  and  not  do  !  " 


THE    RIME    OF    THE    ANCIENT    MARINER.  2O3 

"But  I  can  talk  while  I  work,  miss,"  Richard  went 
on  ;    "and  I  will  try  again  to  remember." 

"Please,  please  do." 

Richard  thought  a  little,  and  presently  resuming 
the  poem,  went  on  to  the  end  of  the  first  part.  As 
he  finished  the  last  stanza — 

*'  God  save  thee,  ancient  Mariner, 

Froiti  the  fiends  that  plague  thee  thus  — 
Why  look'st  thou  so  ? — ^With  my  cross-bow 
I  shot  the  Albatross  !  " 

"Ah  !  "  cried  Barbara,  "  I  see  now  what  made  you 
think  of  the  poem  !  " — and  she  looked  down  at  the 
throbbing  bird  in  her  lap. 

It  opened  its  dark  eyes  once  more — with  a  reel- 
ing, pitiful  look  at  her,  Barbara  thought — quivered  a 
little,   and  lay  still.     She  burst  into  tears, 

Richard  dropped  his  work,  and  made  a  step  toward 
her. 

"  Never  mind,"  she  said.  ' '  One  has  got  to  cry  so 
much,  and  I  may  as  well  cry  for  the  bird  !  I'm  all 
right  now,  thank  you  !  Please  go  on.  The  bird  is 
dead,  and  I'm  glad.  I  will  let  it  lie  a  little,  and 
then  bury  it.  If  it  be  anywhere,  perhaps  it  will  one 
day  know  me,  and  then  it  will  love  me.  Please  go 
on  with  the  poem.  It  will  make  mg  forget.  I'm  not 
bound  to  remember,  am  I — where  I'm  not  to  blame, 
I  mean,  and  cannot  help .?  " 

"Certainly  not  !  "  acquiesced  Richard,  and  began 
the  second  part. 

"  I  see  !  I  see  !  "  cried  Barbara,  wiping  her  eyes. 
"They  were  cross  with  him  for  killing  the  bird,  not 
because  they  loved  the  beautiful  creature,  but  because 
it  was  unlucky  to  kill  him  !     And  then  when  nothing 


204  THERE    AND    BACK. 

but  good  came,  they  said  it  was  quite  right  to  kill 
him,  and  told  lies  of  him,  and  said  he  was  a  bad 
bird,  and  brought  the  fog  and  mist ! — I  wonder  what's 
coming  to  them  ! — That's  not  the  end,  is  it?  It  can't 
be!" 

"No;  it's  not  nearly  done  yet.  It's  only  begin- 
ning." 

"I'm  so  glad  !      Do  go  on." 

She  was  eager  as  any  child.  Coleridge  could  not 
have  desired  a  better  listener. 

"  I  know  !  /  know  !  "  she  said,  presently.  "  We 
were  caught  in  a  calm  as  we  came  home  !  My 
father  is  fond  of  the  sea,  and  brought  us  round  the 
Cape  in  a  sailing-vessel  It  was  horrid.  It  lasted 
only  three  days,  but  I  felt  as  if  I  should  die.  It  wasn't 
long  enough,  I  suppose,  to  draw  out  the  creeping 
things  !  " 

"Perhaps  it  wasn't  near  enough  to  the  equator  for 
them,"  answered  Richard,  and  went  on  : — 

"  Ah  !  well  a-day  !    what  evil  looks 
Had  I  from  old  and  young  ; 
Instead  of  the  cross,  the  Albatross 
About  my  neck  was  hung." 

"  Poor  man  !  And  in  such  weather!"  exclaimed 
Barbara.  "And  such  a  huge  creature!  I  see! 
They  thought  now  the  killing  of  the  bird  had  brought 
the  calm,  and  they  would  have  their  revenge  !  A 
bad  set,  those  sailors  !  People  that  deserve  punish- 
ment always  want  to  punish.     Do  go  on.' 

When  the  skeleton-ship  came,  her  eyes  grew  with 
listening  like  those  of  one  in  a  trance. 

"What  a  horrid,  live  dead  woman!"  she  said. 
"  Her  whiteness  is  worse  than  any  blackness.  But 
I  wish  he  had  told  us  what  Death  was  like  !  " 


THE    RIME    OF    THE    ANCIENT    MARINER.  205 

"In  the  first  edition,"  returned  Richard,  much 
delighted  that  she  missed  what  constructive  sym- 
metry required,  "there  is  a  description  of  Death.  I 
doubt  if  you  would  like  it,  though.  You  don't  like 
horrid  thing-s .''  " 

"I  do — if  they  should  be  horrid,  and  are  horrid 
enough." 

"Coleridge  thought  afterwards  it  was  better  to 
leave  it  out !  " 

"Tell  it  me,  anyhow." 

"  //is  bones  were  black  with  many  a  crack, 
All  black  and  bare,  I  ween  ; 
Jet-black  and  bare,  save  where  with  rust, 
Of  mouldy  damps  and  charnel  crust, 

They  were  patched  with  purple  and  green. 

—There  !     What  do  you  think  of  that  ?  " 
"  ffe  is  nothing  like  so  horrid  as  the  woman  1" 
"She  is  more  horrid  in  the  first  edition." 
"  How  ?" 

"  //er  lips  are  red,  /ler  looks  are  free, 

//er  locks  are  yellow  as  gold  ; 
Her  skin  is  as  white  as  leprosy. 
And  she  is  far  liker  Death  than  he; 

Her  flesh  makes  the  still  air  cold." 

"I  do  think  that  is  worse.  Tell  me  again  how 
the  other  goes." 

"  The  Night-Mare  Life-in-death  was  she, 
Who  thicks  man's  blood  with  cold." 

"Yes,  the  other  is  worse  !  I  can  hardly  tell  why, 
except  it  be  that  you  get  at  the  sense  of  it  easier. 
What  does  the  Nightmare  Life-in-Death  mean  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.      I  can't  quite  get  at  it." 


206  THERE    AND    BACK. 


How  should  he  ?  Richard  was  too  close  to  the 
awful  phantom  to  know  that  this  was  her  portrait. 

"There's  another  dreadful  stanza  in  the  first 
edition,"  he  went  on.  "  It  is  repeated  in  the  second, 
but  left  out  in  the  last.  I  fancy  the  poet  let  hin:iself 
be  overpersuaded  to  omit  it.  The  poem  was  not 
actually  printed  without  it  until  after  his  death  :  he 
had  only  put  it  in  the  errata,  to  be  omitted. — When 
the  woman  whistles  with  joy  at  having  won  the 
ancient  Mariner, 

"  A  gust  of  wind  sterte  up  behind, 

— as  if,  like  the  sailors,  she  had  whistled  for  it : — 

"  A  gust  of  wind  sterte  up  behind, 
And  whistled  through  his  bones  ; 

Through  the  holes  of  his  eyes  and  the  hole  of  his  mouth, 
Half  whistles  and  half  groans  ; 

and  the  spectre-bark   is  blown  along  by  this  breath 
coming  out  of  the  bosom  of  the  skeleton." 

"  I  think  it  was  a  great  mistake  to  leave  that 
verse  out!"  said  Barbara.  "There  is  no  nasty 
horror  in  it  !  There  is  a  little  in  the  description  of 
Death  !  " 

"I  think  with  you,"  returned  Richard,  more  and 
more  astonished  at  the  insight  of  a  girl  who  had 
read  next  to  nothing.  "Our  lecturer  at  King's,"  he 
went  on,  "pointed  out  to  us,  in  this  part,  what 
some  call  a  blunder." 

"What  is  it.?" 

"I  will  give  you  the  verses  again;  and  you  see 
if  you  can  pick  it  out." 

"Do,  please." 

" — Till  clombe  above  the  eastern  bar 
The  horned  Moon,  with  one  bright  star 
Within  the  nether  tip." 


THE    RIME    OF    THE    ANCIENT    MARINER.  20/ 

"I  never  saw  a  star  there!  But  I  see  nothings 
wrong." 

"Which  is  the  nearest  to  us  of  the  heavenly- 
bodies  ?  " 

"The  moon,  I  suppose." 

"Certainly  : — how,  then,  could  a  star  come 
between  us  audit?  For  if  the  star  were  within  the 
tip  of  the  moon,  it  must  be  between  us  and  the  dark 
part  of  the  moon  !  " 

"  I  see  !  How  stupid  of  me  !  But  let  me  think  ! — 
If  the  star  were  just  on  the  edge  of  the  moon, 
between  the  horns,  it  would  almost  look  as  if  it 
were  within  the  tips — might  it  not  ?  " 

"  That's  the  best  that  can  be  said  for  it  anyhow, — 
except  indeed  that  the  poor  ignorant  sailor  might, 
in  the  midst  of  such  horrors,  well  make  the 
blunder. — By  the  way,  in  the  first  edition  it  stood 
as  you  have  just  said  :  the  line  was, 

Almost  within  the  tips." 

"What  did  he  change  it  to  ?  " 
"  He  made  it — 

Within  the  nether  tip.'* 

"Why  did  he  change  it.?" 

"You  would  see  that  at  the  first  glance,  if  you 
were  used  to  riming." 

"  Are  you  a  poet,  then,  as  well  as  a  blacksmith 
and  a  bookbinder  ?  " 

"Too  much  of  a  poet,  I  hope,  to  imagine  my- 
self more  than  a  whittler  of  reeds  !  "  answered 
Richard. 

He  was  not  sorry,  however,  to  let  Barbara  know 
him  for  a  poor  relation  of  the  high  family  of  poets. 


208 


THERE    AND    BACK. 


In  truth,  what  best  enabled  him  to  understand  their 
work,  was  the  humble  work  of  the  same  sort  he  did 
himself. 

She  did  not  understand  what  he  meant  hj  awhiUler 
of  reeds,  but  she  rightly  took  what  he  said  for  a 
humble  affirmative. 

"  I  begin  to  be  frightened  at  you  !  "  she  rejoined, 
half  meaning  it.  "Who  knows  what  else  you  may 
not  be  !  " 

"I  am  little  enough  of  anything,"  answered 
Richard,  "but  nothing  that  I  do  not  wish  to  be 
more  of." 

A  short  silence  followed. 

"You  have  not  told  me  yet  why  he  changed  that 
line  !  "  resumed  Barbara. 

"Better  wait  until  I  can  show  it  you  in  the  book  : 
then  you  will  see  at  once. " 

"Please,  go  on  then.  I  don't  know  anything 
about  the  poem  yet !  I  don't  know  why  it  was 
written  !  " 

"You  like  some  dreams,  though  they  have  no 
reason  in  them,  don't  you  .'  " 

"Yes;  but  then  I  suppose  there  is  reason  in  the 
poem  ! " 

"There  is,  indeed  !"  said  Richard,  and  went  on. 

But  presently  she  stopped  him. 

"One  thing  I  should  like  to  know  before  we  go 
further,"  she  said  ;  " — why  they  all  fell  down  except 
the  ancient  Mariner." 

"  You  remember  that  Death  and  the  woman  were 
casting  dice } " 

"Yes." 

"It  is  not  very  clear,  but  this  is  how  I  understand 
the  thing : — They  diced  for  the  crew,   one  by  one ; 


THE  RIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER.       209 

Death  won  every  one  till  they  came  to  the  last,  the 
ancient  Mariner  himself,  and  the  woman,  a  sort  of 
live  Death,  wins  him.  That  is  why  she  cries,  '  I've 
won,  won  ! '  and  whistles  thrice — though  she  has  won 
only  one  out  of  two  hundred.  I  should  think  she 
was  used  to  Death  having  more  than  she,  else  she 
wouldn't  have  been  so  pleased.  Perhaps  she  seldom 
got  one  ! " 

"Yes,  I  see  all  that.  But  things  oughtn't  to  go  by 
the  casting  of  dice.  Money  may,  for  that  does  not 
signify,  but  not  the  souls  and  bodies  of  men.  It 
should  not  be  the  way  in  a  poem  any  more  than  in 
the  open  world. — Let  m.e  think  ! — I  have  it ! — They 
were  not  good  men,  those  sailors  !  They  first  blamed, 
and  then  justified,  and  then  again  blamed  and  cruelly 
punished  the  poor  mariner,  who  had  done  wrong 
certainly,  but  was  doubtless  even  then  sorry  for  it. 
He  was  cruel  to  a  bird  he  did  not  know,  and  they 
were  cruel  to  a  man  they  did  know  !  So  they  are 
taken  and  he  is  left — to  come  well  out  of  it  at  last,  I 
hope. — Yes,  it's  all  right !     Now  you  can  go  on." 

She  said  nothing  as  he  showed  her  the  deck  strewn 
so  thick  with  the  dead  bodies,  whose  cursing  eyes 
all  looked  one  way ;  but  when  the  heavenly  contrast 
came  : — 

"  The  moving  Moon  went  up  the  sky, 
And  nowhere  did  abide  ; 
Softly  she  was  going  up, 

And  a  star  or  two  beside  ;" — 

she  gave  a  deep  sigh  of  delight,  and  said — 

"Ah,   don't  I  know  her,  the  beauty  !     Isn't  it  just 

many  a  time  she  has  made  me  sick  with  the  love  of 

her,   and  her  peace,   and  her  ways  of  looking,  and 

walking,  and  talking — for  talk  she  does  to  those  that 

14 


THERE    AND    BACK. 


can  listen  hard !  I  dare  say,  in  this  old  country 
where  she's  been  about  so  long,  you  will  think  it 
silly  to  make  so  much  of  her  ;  but  you  don't  know 
here  what  it  is  to  have  her  night  after  night  for  your 
one  companion  !  She  never  grows  a  downright 
friend,  though — a  friend  you've  got  at  the  heart  of  ! 
She  always  looks  at  you  as  if  she  were  saying — 
'  Yes,  yes  ;  I  know  what  you  are  thinking  !  but  I 
have  that  in  me  you  can  never  know,  and  I  can 
never  tell  !  It  will  go  down  with  me  to  the  grave  of 
the  great  universe,  and  no  one  will  ever  know  it !  It 
is  so  lovely  ! — and  oh,  so  sad  ! ' " 

She  was  silent.  Richard  could  not  answer.  He 
saw  her  far  away  like  the  moon  she  spoke  of  She 
was  growing  to  him  a  marvel  and  a  mystery.  Some- 
thing strange  seemed  befalling  him.  Was  she 
weaving  a  spell  about  his  soul?.  Was  she  fettering 
him  for  her  slave  ?  Was  she  one  of  the  wild,  bewilder- 
ing creatures  of  ancient  lonely  belief,  that  are  the 
souls  of  the  loveliest  things,  but  can  detach  them- 
selves from  them,  and  wander  out  in  garments  more 
immediately  their  own .?  Was  she  salamander  or 
sylph,  naiad  or  undine,  oread  or  dryad  ? — But  then 
she  had  such  a  head,  and  they  were  all  rather  silly  ! 

When  the  ballad  told  how  silvery  were  the  sea- 
snakes  in  the  moonlight,  and  how  gorgeously  varied 
in  the  red  shadow,  Richard  looked  for  her  to  show 
delight  in  the  play  of  their  colors  ;  but,  though  the 
sweet  strong  little  mouth  smiled,  her  brows  looked 
more  puzzled  than  pleased — which  was  a  thing  note- 
worthy. 

Any  marvel  in  Nature,  however  new,  Barbara 
would  have  welcomed  with  bare  delight ;  she  would 
have  asked  neither  the  why,   nor  the  how,   nor  the 


THE    RIME    OF    THE    ANCIENT    MARINER.  211 

final  cause  of  the  phenomenon — as  if,  being  natural, 
it  must  be  right,  and  she  needed  not  trouble  herself; 
but  here,  in  this  poem,  a  world  born  of  the  imagina- 
tion of  a  man,  she  wanted  to  know  about  everything, 
whether  it  was,  or  would  be,  or  ought  to  be  just  so 
— whether,  in  a  word,  every  fact  was  souled  with 
a  reason,  as  it  ought  to  be.  Perhaps  she  demanded 
such  satisfaction  too  soon  ;  perhaps  she  ought  to  have 
waited  for  the  whole,  and,  having  found  that  a  har- 
monious thing,  then  first  have  inquired  into  the  truth 
of  its  parts  ;  but  so  it  was  :  she  must  know  as  she 
went,  that  she  might  know  when  she  arrived  !  But 
in  this  she  revealed  a  genuine  artistic  faculty — that 
she  gave  herself  up  to  the  poet,  and  allowed  him  to 
inspire  her,  yet  would  have  reason  from  him. 
Richard  went  on  : — 

"O  happy  living  things  !    No  tongue 
Their  beauty  might  declare  ; 
A  spring  of  love  gushed  from  my  heart. 
And  I  blessed  them  unaware  ! 
Sure  my  kind  saint  took  pity  on  me, 
And  I  blessed  them  unaware. 

The  self-same  moment  I  could  pray  ; 
And  from  my  neck  so  free 
The  Albatross  fell  oiT,  and  sank 
Like  lead  into  the  sea." 

Barbara  jumped  up,  clapping  her  hands  with 
delight. 

' '  I  knew  something  was  going  to  happen  !  "  she 
cried.      "  I  knew  it  was  coming  all  right !  " 

"  You  have  not  heard  the  end  yet  !  You  don't  know 
what  may  be  coming  !  "  protested  Richard. 

"  Nothing  ca7i  go  wrong  now  !  The  man's  love  is 
awake,  and  he  will  be  sorrier  and  sorrier  for  what  he 


THERE    AND    BACK. 


did!  Instead  of  saying,  '  The  wrigglesome,  slimy- 
things  ! '  he  blesses  them  ;  and  because  he  is  going  to 
be  a  friend  to  the  other  creatures  in  the  house,  and 
live  on  good  terms  with  them,  the  body  he  had  killed 
tumbles  from  his  neck  ;  the  bad  deed  is  gone  down 
into  the  depth  of  the  great  sea,  and  he  is  able  to  say 
his  prayers  again  ; — no,  not  that  exactly  ;  it  must  be 
something  better  than  saying  prayers  now  !  " — She 
paused  a  moment,  then  added,  "  It  must  be  some- 
thing I  think  I  don't  know  yet  !  "  and  sat  down. 

Richard  heard  and  admired  :  he  thought  that  as  she 
had  perceived  there  was  something  better  than  say- 
ing prayers,  she  would  pray  no  more  ! 

"Goon;  goon,"  she  said.  "But  if  you  like  to 
stop,  I  shan't  mind.  I  have  no  fear  now.  It's  all 
going  right,  and  must  soon  come  all  right  !  " 

"  O  sleep  !     It  is  a  gentle  thing," 

said  Richard,  going  on. 

"There  it  is  !  "  she  interrupted.  "  I  knew  it  was 
all  coming  right !     He  can  sleep  now  !  " 

"  O  sleep  !     It  is  a  gentle  thing, 
Beloved  from  pole  to  pole  ! 
To  Mary  queen  the  praise  be  given ! 
She  sent  the  gentle  sleep  from  Heaven, 
That  slid  into  my  soul." 

Some  one  was  in  the  room,  the  door  of  which  had 
been  open  all  the  time.  The  sky  was  so  cloudy,  and 
the  twilight  so  far  advanced,  that  neither  of  them, 
Barbara  absorbed  in  the  poem  and  Richard  in  the  last 
of  his  day's  work,  had  heard  any  one  enter. 

"  Why  don't  you  ring  for  a  lamp  ?  "  said  Lestrange. 

"There  is  no  occasion;  I  have  just  done,"  an- 
swered Richard. 


THE    RIME    OF    THE    ANCIENT    MARINER.  21 3 

"You  cannot  surely  see  in  this  light  !  "  said  Arthur, 
who  was  short-sig-hted.  "  You  certainly  were  not  at 
your  work  when  I  came  into  the  room  !  " 

He  thought  Richard  had  caught  up  the  piece  of 
leather  he  was  paring,  in  order  to  deceive  him. 

"Indeed,  sir,  I  was." 

"You  were  not.     You  were  reading  !  " 

"I  was  not  reading,  sir.  I  was  busy  with  the  last 
of  my  day's  work." 

"Do  not  tell  me  you  were  not  reading:  I  heard 
you  !  " 

"You  did  hear  me,  sir;  but  you  did  not  hear 
me  reading,"  rejoined  Richard,  growing  angry  with 
the  tone  of  the  young  man,  and  with  his  unreadiness 
to  believe  him. 

Many  workmen,  having  told  a  lie,  would  have  been 
more  indignant  at  not  being  believed,  than  was 
Richard  speaking  the  truth  ;  still,  he  was  growing 
angry. 

"You  must  have  a  wonderful  memory,  then!" 
said  Lestrange.  "But,  excuse  me,  we  don't  care  to 
hear  your  voice  in  the  house." 

The  same  moment,  he  either  discovered,  or  pre- 
tended to  discover,  Barbara's  presence. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  Wylder  !  "  he  said.  "  I 
did  not  know  he  was  amusing  you  !  I  did  not  see 
you  were  in  the  room  !  " 

"  I  suppose,"  returned  Barbara — and  it  savored  of 
the  savage  Lestrange  sometimes  called  her — "you 
will  be  ordering  the  nightingales  not  to  sing  injyour 
apple-trees  next  I  " 

"  I  don't  understand  you  !  " 

"Neither  do  you  understand  Mr.  Tuke,  or  you 
would  not  speak  to  him  that  way  !  " 


214  THERE    AND    BACK. 


She  rose  and  walked  to  the  door,  but  turned  as  she 
went  and  added — 

"  He  was  repeating  the  loveliest  poem  I  ever  heard 
— The  Rime  of  the  Ancieiit  Mariner. — I  didn't  know 
there  could  be  such  a  poem  !  "  she  added,  simply. 

"It  is  not  one  I  care  about.  But  you  need  not  take 
it  second-hand  from  Tuke  :  I  will  lend  it  you." 

"Thank  you  1  "  said  Barbara,  in  a  tone  which  was 
not  of  gratitude,  and  left  the  room. 

Lestrange  stood  for  a  moment,  but  finding  noth- 
ing suitable  to  say,  turned  and  followed  her,  while 
Richard  bit  his  lip  to  keep  himself  silent.  He  knew, 
if  he  spoke,  there  would  be  an  end  ;  and  he  did  not 
want  this  to  be  his  last  sight  of  the  wonderful  creature  ! 

Barbara  went  to  the  door  with  the  intention  of 
going  to  the  stables  for  Miss  Brown  and  galloping 
straight  home.  But  she  bethought  herself  that  so  she 
might  seem  to  be  ashamed.  She  was  not  Arthur's 
guest !  He  had  been  insolent  to  her  friend,  who  had 
done  more  for  her  already  than  ever  Arthur  was  likely 
to  do,  but  that  was  no  reason  why  she  should  run 
away  from  him — ^just  the  contrary  !  She  wouhi  like 
to  punish  him  for  it  somehow  ! — not  shoot  him,  for 
she  would  not  kill  a  pigeon,  and  to  kill  a  man  would 
be  worse,  though  he  wasn't  so  nice  as  a  pigeon  ! — • 
but  she  would  like — yes,  she  would  like  to  give  him 
just  three  good  cuts  across  the  shoulders  with  her 
new  riding-whip  !  What  right  had  he  to  speak  so  to 
his  superior }  By  being  a  true  workman,  Mr.  Tuke 
was  a  gentleman  !  Could  Arthur  •  Lestrange  have 
talked  like  that }  Could  he  have  spoken  the  poetry 
like  that  }  The  bookbinder  was  worth  a  hundred  of 
him  !  Could  Arthur  shoe  a  horse  ?  What  if  the  work- 
ing man  were  to  turn  out  the  real  lord  of  the  creation. 


THE    RIME    OF    THE    ANCIENT    MARINER. 


215 


and  the  gentleman  have  to  black  his  boots  !  There 
was  something-  like  it  in  the  gospel ! 

She  did  not  know  that  in  general  the  working  man 
is  as  foolish  and  unfit  as  the  rich  man  ;  that  he  only- 
wants  to  be  rich,  and  trample  on  his  own  past.  The 
working  man  may  perish  like  the  two  hundred  of  the 
crew,  and  the  rich  man  may  ho.  saved  like  the  Ancient 
Mariner  ! 

It  is  the  poor  man  that  gives  the  rich  man  all  the 
pull  on  him,  by  cherishing  the  same  feelings  as  the 
rich  man  concerning  riches,  by  fancying  the  rich  man 
because  of  his  riches  the  greater  man,  and  longing  to 
be  rich  like  him.  A  man  that  can  do  things  is  greater 
than  any  man  who  only  has  things.  True,  a  rich 
man  can  get  mighty  things  done,  but  he  does  not  do 
them.  He  may  be  much  the  greater  for  willing  them 
to  be  done,  but  he  is  not  the  greater  for  the  actual 
doing  of  them. 

"At  any  rate,"  said  Barbara  to  herself,  "  I  like  this 
working  man  better  than  that  gentleman  !  " 

Richard  stood  for  a  while  boiling  with  indignation. 
He  would  have  cared  less  if  he  had  been  sure  he  had 
answered  him  properly,  but  he  could  not  remember 
what  he  had  said. 

The  clock  struck  the  hour  that  ended  his  workday. 
Instead  of  sitting  down  to  read,  he  set  out  for  the 
smithy.  It  was  not  a  week  since  he  had  seen  his 
grandfather,  but  he  wanted  motion,  and  desired  a 
human  face  that  belonged  to  him.  It  was  rather  dark 
when  he  reached  it,  but  the  old  man  had  not  yet 
dropped  work.  The  sparks  were  flying  wild  about 
his  gray  head  as  Richard  drew  near. 

"Can  I  help  you,  grandfather?  "  he  said. 

"No,  no,  lad  ;  your  hands  are  too  soft  by  this  time 


2l6 


THERE    AND    BACK. 


— with  your  bits  of  brass  wheels,  and  scraps  of  leather, 
and  needles,  and  paste  !  No,  no,  lad  ; — thou  cannot 
help  the  old  man  to-night. — But  you're  not  in  earnest, 
are  you.?"  he  added,  looking  up  suddenly.  "You 
ain't  left  your  place  ?  " 

"No,  but  my  day's  work  being  over,  why  shouldn't 
I  help  you  to  get  yours  over !  When  first  I  came 
you  expected  me  to  do  so  !  " 

"Look  here,  lad  ! — as  a  man  gets  older  he  comes 
to  think  more  of  fair  play,  and  less  of  his  rights  : 
it  seems  to  me  that  not  your  time  only,  but  your 
strength  as  well  belongs  to  the  man  who  hires  you  ; 
and  if  you  weary  yourself  helping  me,  who  have  no 
claim,  you  cannot  do  so  much  or  so  good  work  for 
your  master  ! — Do  you  see  sense  in  that.? " 

"  Indeed  I  do  !     I  think  you  are  quite  right." 

"It  is  strange,"  Simon  went  on,  "how  age  makes 
you  more  particular  !  The  thing  I  would  have  done 
without  thinking  when  I  was  young,  I  think  twice 
of  now.  Is  that  what  we  were  sent  here  for — to 
grow  honest,  I  wonder? — Depend  upon  it,"  he  re- 
sumed after  a  moment's  silence,  "there's  a  some- 
where where  the  thing's  taken  notice  of!  There's 
a  somebody  as  thinks  about  it ! " 

After  more  talk,  and  a  cup  of  tea  at  the  cottage, 
Richard  set  out  for  the  lodgeless  gate,  already  men- 
tioned more  than  once,  to  which  the  housekeeper 
had  lent  him  a  key. 

He  had  not  got  far  into  the  park,  when  to  his  sur- 
prise he  perceived,  a  little  way  off  on  the  grass,  a 
small  figure  gliding  swiftly  toward  him  through  the 
dusk  rather  than  the  light  of  the  moon,  which,  but 
just  above  the  horizon,  sent  little  of  her  radiance  to 
the  spot.     It  was  Barbara. 


THE    RIME    OF    THE    ANCIENT    MARINER.  2I7 

"  I  have  been  watching  for  you  ever  so  long!" 
she  said.  "They  told  me  you  had  gone  out,  and  I 
thought  you  might  come  home  this  way." 

"  I  wish  I  had  known  !  I  wouldn't  have  kept  you 
waiting,''  returned  Richard. 

"  I  want  the  rest  of  the  poem, "  she  said.  "It  was 
horrid  to  have  Arthur  interrupt  us  1  He  was  abom- 
inably rude  too." 

"He  certainly  had  no  right  to  speak  to  me  as  he 
did.  And  if  he  had  confessed  himself  wrong,  or 
merely  said  he  had  made  a  mistake,  I  should  have 
thought  no  more  about  it.  I  hope  it  is  not  true  you 
are  going  to  marry  him,  miss  ! — because " 

"  If  I  thought  one  of  the  family  said  so,  I  would 
sleep  in  the  park  to-night.  I  would  not  enter  the 
house  again.  When  I  marry,  it  will  be  a  gentleman  ; 
and  Mr.  Lestrange  is  not  a  gentleman — at  least  he  did 
not  behave  like  one  to  day.  Come,  tell  me  the  rest 
of  the  poem.     We  have  plenty  of  time  here." 

The  young  bookbinder  was  perplexed.  He  had 
not  much  knowledge  of  the  world,  but  he  could  not 
bear  the  thought  of  the  servants  learning  that  they 
were  in  the  park  together.  At  the  same  time  he  saw 
that  he  must  not  even  hint  at  imprudence.  Her  will 
was  not  by  him  to  be  scanned  !  She  must  be  allowed 
to  know  best  I  A  single  tone  of  hesitation  would  be 
an  insult  !  He  must  take  care  of  her  without  seem- 
ing to  do  so  !  If  they  walked  gently,  they  would 
finish  the  poem  as  they  came  near  the  house  :  there 
he  would  leave  her,  and  return  by  the  lodge-gate. 

"Where  did  we  leave  off?"  he  said. 

His  brief  silence  had  seemed  to  Barbara  but  a 
moment  spent  in  recalling. 

"We  left  off  at  the  place  where  the  bird  fell  from 


2l8  THERE    AND    BACK. 


his  neck — no,  just  after  that,  where  he  falls  asleep, 
as  well  he  might,  after  it  was  gone." 

The  moon  was  now  peeping,  in  little  spots  of  light, 
through  the  higher  foliage,  and  casting  a  doubtful, 
ghostly  sediment  of  shine  around  them.  The  night 
was  warm.  Glow-worms  lay  here  and  there,  brood- 
ing out  green  light  in  the  bosom  of  the  thick  soft 
grass.  There  was  no  wind  save  what  the  swift  wing 
of  a  bat,  sweeping  close  to  their  heads,  would  now 
and  then  awake.  The  creature  came  and  vanished 
like  an  undefined  sense  of  evil  at  hand.  But  it  was 
only  Richard  who  thought  that ;  nothing  such 
crossed  the  starry  clearness  of  Barbara's  soul.  Her 
skirt  made  a  buttony  noise  with  the  heads  of  the 
rib-grass.  Her  red  cloak  was  dark  in  the  moonlight. 
She  threw  back  the  hood,  and  coming  out  of  its 
shadow  like  another  moon  from  a  cloud,  walked  the 
earth  with  bare  head.  Her  hands  too  were  bare, 
and  glimmering  in  the  night-gleam.  He  saw  the 
rings  on  the  small  fingers  shimmer  and  shine  :  she 
was  as  fond  of  color  and  flash  as  Lord.  St.  Albans! 
Higher  and  higher  rose  the  moon.  Her  light  on  the 
grass-blades  wove  them  into  a  carpet  with  its  weft 
of  faint  moonbeams.  The  small  dull  mirrors  of  the 
evergreen  leaves  glinted  in  the  thickets,  as  the  two 
went  by,  like  the  bits  of  ill-polished  glass  in  an  Indian 
tapestry.  The  moon  was  everywhere,  filling  all  the 
hollow  over-world,  and  forever  alighting  on  their 
heads.  Far  away  they  saw  the  house,  a  remote 
something,  scarce  existent  in  the  dreaming  night,  the 
gracious-ghastly  poem,  and  the  mingling,  harmoniz- 
ing moon.  It  was  much  too  far  away  to  give  them 
an  anxious  thought,  and  for  long  it  seemed,  like 
death,  to  be  coming  no  nearer  ;  but  they  were  mov- 


THE    RIME    OF    THE    ANCIENT    MARINER.  219 

ing  toward  it  all  the  time,  and  it  was  even  growing' 
a  more  insistent  fact.  Thus  they  walked  at  once  in 
tlie  two  blended  worlds  of  the  moonlight  and  the 
tale,  while  Richard  half-chanted  the  music-speech  of 
the  most  musical  of  poets,  telling  of  the  roaring  wind 
that  the  mariner  did  not  feel,  of  the  flags  of  electric 
light,  of  the  dances  of  the  wan  stars,  of  the  sighing- 
of  the  sails,  of  the  star-dog-ged  moon,  and  the  torrent- 
like falls  of  the  lightning  down  the  mountainous 
cloud — for  so  Barbara,  who  had  seen  two  or  three 
tropical  thunderstorms,  explained  to  Richard  the 
lightning  which 

fell  with  never  a  jag, 
A  river  steep  and  wide; — 

until  that  groan  arose  from  the  dead  men,  and  the 
bodies  heaved  themselves  up  on  their  feet,  and  began 
to  work  the  ropes,  and  worked  on  till  sunrise,  and 
the  mariner  knew  that  not  the  old  souls  but  angels 
had  entered  into  them,  by  their  gathering  about  the 
mast,  and  sending-  such  a  strange  lovely  hymn 
through  their  dead  throats  up  to  the  sun. 
When  Richard  repeated  the  stanza — 

' '  It  ceased  ;  yet  still  the  sails  made  on 
A  pleasant  noise  till  noon, 
A  noise  like  of  a  hidden  brook 
In  the  leafy  month  of  June, 
That  to  the  sleeping  woods  all  night 
Singeth  a  quiet  tune  ;  " 

Barbara  uttered  a  prolonged  "  Oh  !  "  and  again  was 
silent,  listening  to  the  talk  of  the  elemental  spirits, 
feeling  the  very  wind  of  home  that  blew  on  the 
mariner,  seeing  the  lighthouse,  and  the  hill,  and  the 
weather-cock  on  the  church-spire,  and  the  white  bay, 


2  20  THERE    AND    BACK. 

and  the  shining  seraphs  with  the  crimson  shadows, 
and  the  sinking-  ship,  and  the  hermit  that  made  the 
mariner  tell  his  story  as  he  was  telling  it  now. 
But  when  Richard  came  to  the  words — 

"  He  prayeth  well,  who  loveth  well 
Both  man  and  bird  and  beast. 

He  prayeth  best,  who  loveth  best 
All  things  both  great  and  small, 
For  the  dear  God  who  loveth  us, 
He  made  and  loveth  all," — 

she  clapped  her  hands  together;  and  when  he  ended 
them,  she  cried  out — 

"  I  was  sure  of  it  1  I  knew  something  would  come 
to  tie  it  all  up  together  into  one  bundle  !  That's  it ! 
That's  it.  The  love  of  everything  is  the  garden-bed 
out  of  which  grow  the  roses  of  prayer  ! — But  what  am 
I  saying!"  she  added,  checking  herself;  "I  love 
everything,  at  least  everything  that  comes  near  me, 
and  I  never  pray  !  " 

"Of  course  not  !    Why  should  you  .?  "  said  Richard. 

"Why  should  I  not.?" 

"  You  would  if  it  were  reasonable  !  " 

"I  will,  then!  To  love  all  the  creatures  and  not 
have  a  word  to  say  to  the  God  that  made  them  for 
loving  them  beforehand — is  that  reasonable  ?  " 

"  No,  if  a  God  did  make  them. " 

"  They  could  not  make  themselves  !  " 

"  No  ;  nothing  could  make  itself." 

"  Then  somebody  must  have  made  them  !  " 

"Who.?" 

"Why,  the  one  that  could  and  did — who  else.?" 

"We  know  nothing  about  such  a  somebody.     All 


THE    RIME    OF   THE    ANCIENT    MARINER.  22  1 

we  know  is,  that  there  they  are,  and  we  have  got  to 
love  them  !  " 

"Ah!"  she  said,  and  looked  up  into  the  wide 
sky,    where     now    the     "wandering    moon"    was 

alone, 

Like  one  that  had  been  led  astray 
Through  the  heaven's  wide  pathless  way, 

and  gazed  as  if  she  searched  for  the  Somebody.  "  I 
should  like  to  see  the  one  that  made  that !  "  she  said 
at  last.  "Think  of  knowing  the  very  person  that 
made  that  poor  pigeon,  and  has  got  it  now  ! — and 
made  Miss  Brown — and  the  wind  !  I  must  find  him  ! 
He  can't  have  made  me  and  not  care  when  I  ask 
him  to  speak  to  me  !  You  say  he  is  nowhere  !  I 
don't  believe  there  is  any  nowhere,  so  he  can't  be 
there  !  Some  people  may  be  content  with  things  ; 
I  shall  get  tired  of  them,  I  know,  if  I  don't  get  be- 
hind them  !  A  thing  is  nothing  without  what  things 
it !  A  gift  is  nothing  without  what  gives  it  !  Oh, 
dear  !     I  know  what  I  mean,  but  I  can't  say  it !  " 

"  You  don't  know  what  you  mean,  but  you  do  say 
it !  "  thought  Richard. 

He  was  nowise  repelled  by  her  enthusiasm,  for 
there  was  in  it  nothing  assailant,  nothing  too  ab- 
surdly superstitious.     He  did  not  care  to  answer  her. 

They  went  walking  toward  the  house  and  were 
silent.  The  moon  went  on  with  her  silentness  :  she 
never  stops  being  silent.  When  they  felt  near  the 
house,  they  fell  to  walking  slower,  but  neither  knew 
it.     Barbara  spoke  again  : 

"Just  fancy!"  she  said,  "—if  God  were  all  the 
time  at  our  backs,  giving  us  one  lovely  thing  after 
another,  trying  to  make  us  look  round  and  see  who 
it  was  that  was  so  good  to  us  !     Imagine  him  stand- 


THERE    AND    BACK. 


ing  there,  and  wondering  when  his  little  one  would 
look  round,  and  see  him,  and  burst  out  laughing — 
no,  not  laughing — yes,  laughing — laughing  with 
delight — or  crying,  I  don't  know  which  !  If  I  had 
him  to  love  as  I  should  love  one  like  that,  I  think  I 
should  break  my  heart  with  loving  him — I  should 
love  him  to  the  kiUing  of  me  !  What  !  all  the  col- 
ors and  all  the  shapes,  and  all  the  lights,  and  all  the 
shadows,  and  the  moon,  and  the  wind,  and  the 
water  ! — and  all  the  creatures — and  the  people  that 
one  would  love  so  if  they  would  let  you  ! — and 
all " 

"And  all  the  pain,  and  the  dying,  and  the  disease, 
and  the  wrongs,  and  the  cruelty  !  "  interposed  Rich- 
ard. 

She  was  silent.     After  a  moment  or  two  she  said — 

"I  think  I  will  go  in  now.  I  feel  rather  cold.  I 
think  there  must  be  a  fog,  though  I  can't  see  it." 

She>gave  a  little  shiver.  He  looked  in  her  face. 
Was  it  the  moon,  or  was  it  something  in  her  thoughts 
that  made  the  sweet  countenance  look  so  gray  .'* 
Could  his  mere  suggestion  of  the  reverse,  the  wrong 
side  of  the  web  of  creation,  have  done  it?  Surely 
not  ! 

"  I  think  I  want  some  one  to  say  must  to  me  !  " 
she  said,  after  another  pause.      "  I  feel  as  if " 

There  she  stopped.  Richard  said  nothing.  Some 
instinct  told  him  he  might  blunder. 

He  stood  still.  Barbara  went  on  a  few  steps,  then 
turned  and  said — 

"  Are  you  not  going  in  } '' 

"Not  just  yet,"  he  answered.  "Please  to  remem- 
ber that  if  I  can  do  anything  for  you " 

"You  are  very  kind.     I  am  much  obliged  to  you. 


THE    RIME    OF    THE    ANCIENT    MARINER.  223 

If  you   know   another  rime, But  1   think  I  shall 

have  to  give  up  poetry," 

"  It  will  be  hard  to  find  another  so  good,"  returned 
Richard. 

"Good-night,"  she  said. 

"Good-night,  miss!"  answered  Richard,  and 
walked  away,  with  a  loss  at  his  heart.  The  poem 
has  already  ceased  to  please  her  !  He  had  made  tlie 
lovely  lady  more  thoughtful,  and  less  happy  than 
before  1 

"She  has  been  taught  to  believe  in  a  God,"  he 
said  to  himself.  "She  is  afraid  he  will  be  angry 
with  her,  because,  in  her  company,  I  dared  question 
his  existence  !  A  generous  God — isn't  he  !  If  he 
be  anywhere,  why  don't  he  let  us  see  him?  How 
can  he  expect  us  to  believe  in  him,  if  he  never  shows 
himself.?  But  if  he  did,  why  should  I  worship  him 
for  being,  or  for  making  me?  If  I  didn't  want  him, 
and  I  don't,  I  certainly  shouldn't  worship  him  be- 
cause I  saw  him.  I  couldn't.  If  Nature  is  cruel,  as 
she  certainly  is,  and  he  made  her,  then  he  is  cruel 
too  !  There  cannot  be  such  a  God,  or,  if  there  be,  it 
cannot  be  right  to  worship  him  !  " 

He  did  not  reflect  that  if  he  had  wanted  him,  he 
would  not  have  waited  to  see  him  before  he  wor- 
shipped him. 

But  Barbara  was  saying  to  herself — 

"What  if  he  has  shown  himself  to  me  some  time 
— one  of  those  nights,  perhaps,  when  I  was  out  till 
the  sun  rose — and  I  didn't  know  him  ! — How  fright- 
ful if  there  should  be  nobody  at  all  up  there — nobody 
anywhere  all  round  !  " 

She  stared  into  the  milky,  star-sapphire-Uke  blue, 


2  24  THERE    AND    BACK. 


as  if,  out  of  the  sweetly  veiled  terror-gulf,  she  would, 
by  very  gazing,  draw  the  living  face  of  God. 

Verily  the  God  that  knows  how  not  to  reveal  him- 
self, must  also  know  how  6es/ to  reveal  himself !  If 
there  be  a  calling  child,  there  must  be  an  answering 
father ! 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

A    HUMAN    GADFLY. 

From  so  early  an  age  had  Richard  been  accustomed 
to  despise  a  certain  form  he  called  God,  which  stood 
in  the  gallery  of  his  imagination,  carved  at  by  the 
hands  of  successive  generations  of  sculptors,  some 
hard,  some  feeble,  some  clever,  some  stupid,  all  con- 
ventional and  devoid  of  prophetic  imagination,  that 
his  antagonism  had  long  taken  the  shape  of  an  angry 
hostility  to  the  notion  of  any  God  whatever.  Richard 
could  see  a  thing  to  be  false,  that  is,  he  could  deny, 
but  he  was  not  yet  capable  either  of  discovering  or 
receiving  what  was  true,  because  he  had  not  yet  set 
himself  to  know  the  truth.  To  oppose,  to  refuse,  to 
deny,  is  not  to  know  the  truth,  is  not  to  he  true  any 
more  than  it  is  to  be  false.  Whatever  good  may  lie 
in  the  destroying  of  the  false,  the  best  hammer  of 
the  iconoclast  will  not  serve  withal  to  carve  the 
celestial  form  of  the  Real ;  and  when  the  iconoclast 
becomes  the  bigot  of  negation,  and  declares  the 
non-existence  of  any  form  worthy  of  worship,  be- 
cause he  has  destroyed  so  many  unworthy,  he 
passes  into  a  fool.  That  he  has  never  conceived  a  deity 
such  as  he  could  worship,  is  a  poor  ground  to  any 
but  the  man  himself  for  saying  such  cannot  exist  ; 
and  to  him  it  is  but  a  ground  lightly  vaulted  over  the 
vacuity  self-importance.  Such  a  divine  form  may 
yet  stand  in  the  adytum  of  this  or  that  man  whom 
he  and  the  world  count  an  idiot. 
15 


2  26  THERE    AND    BACK. 

Into  the  workshop  of  Richard's  mind  was  now 
introduced,  by  this  one  disclosure  of  the  mind  of 
Barbara,  a  new  idea  of  divinity,  vague  indeed  as 
new,  but  one  with  which  he  found  himself  compelled 
to  have  some  dealing.  One  of  the  best  services  true 
man  can  do  a  neighbor,  is  to  persuade  him — I  speak 
in  a  parable — to  house  his  children  for  a  while,  that  he 
may  know  what  they  are  :  the  children  of  another  may 
be  the  saving  of  his  children  and  his  whole  house. 
Alas  for  the  man  the  children  of  whose  brain  are  the 
curse  of  the  household  into  which  they  are  received  ! 
But  from  Barbara's  house  Richard  had  taken  into  his 
a  vital  protoplasmic  idea  that  must  work,  and  would 
never  cease  to  work  until  the  house  itself  was  all 
divine — the  idea,  namely,  of  a  being  to  call  God,  who 
was  a  delight  to  think  of,  a  being  concerning  whom 
the  great  negation  was  that  of  everything  Richard 
had  hitherto  associated  with  the  word  God.  The  one 
door  to  admit  this  formal  notion  was  hard  to  open  : 
and  when  admitted,  the  figure  was  not  easy  to  set  up 
so  that  it  could  be  looked  at.  The  human  niche 
where  the  idea  of  a  God  must  stand,  was  in  Richard's 
house  occupied  by  the  most  hideous  falsity.  On  the 
pedestal  crouched  the  goblin  of  a  Japanese  teapot. 

It  was  not  pleasant  to  Richard  to  imagine  any  one 
with  rights  over  him.  It  may  be  that  some  persist 
in  calling  up  the  false  idea  of  such  a  one  hitherto 
presented  to  them,  in  order  to  avoid  feeling  obliga- 
tion to  believe  in  him.  For  the  notion  of  a  God  is 
one  from  which  naturally  a  thoughtful  man  must  feel 
more  or  less  recoil  while  as  yet  he  knows  nothing  of 
the  being  himself,  or  of  the  nature  of  his  creative 
rights,  the  rights  of  perfect,  self- refusing,  devoted 
fatherhood.      It  is  one  thing  to  seem  to  know  with 


A    HUMAN    GADFLY.  2 27 

the  brain,  quite  another  to  know  with  the  heart. 
But  even  in  the  hope-lighted  countenance  of  Barbara, 
even  in  the  tones  in  which  she  suggested  the  pres- 
ence of  a  soul  that  meant  and  was  all  that  the  beautiful 
world  hinted  and  seemed,  Richard  could  not  fail  to 
meet  something  of  the  true  idea  of  a  God. 

Naturally  also,  his  notion  of  the  God  in  whom  he 
felt  that  Barbara  was  at  least  ready  to  believe,  as- 
sumed something  of  the  look  of  Barbara  who  was 
being  drawn  toward  him  ;  so  that  now  the  graces  of 
the  world,  all  its  lovely  impacts  upon  his  senses, 
began  to  be  mixed  up  in  his  mind  with  Barbara 
and  her  God,  Barbara  was  beginning  to  infect  him 
with — shall  I  call  it  the  superstition  of  a  God  ? 
Whatever  it  may  be  called,  it  was  very  far  from  being 
religion  yet.  The  fact  was  only  this — that  the  idea 
of  a  God  worth  believing  in  was  coming  a  little 
nearer  to  him,  was  becoming  to  him  a  little  more 
thinkable. 

He  began  to  feel  his  heart  drawn  at  times,  in  some 
strange,  tenderer  fashion,  hitherto  unknown  to  him, 
to  the  blue  of  the  sky,  especially  in  the  first  sweet- 
ness of  a  summer  morning.  His  soul  would  now 
and  then  seem  to  go  out  of  him,  in  a  passion  of  em- 
brace, to  the  simplest  flower:  the  flower  would  be, 
for  a  moment,  just  its  self  to  him.  He  would  spread 
out  his  arms  to  the  wind,  now  when  it  met  him  in 
its  strength,  now  when  it  but  kissed  his  face.  He 
never  consented  with  himself  that  it  was  one  force  in 
all  the  forms  that  drew  him — that  perhaps  it  was  the 
very  God,  the  All  in  all  about  him.  Neither  did  he 
question  much  with  himself  as  to  how  the  develop- 
ment, rather  than  change,  had  begun.  Whether 
God  did  this,  or  was  this,  or  it  was  only  the  possess- 


THERE    AND    BACK. 


ing  Barbara  that  cast  her  light  out  of  his  eyes  on  the 
things  he  saw  and  felt,  he  scarcely  asked  ;  but  fully 
he  recognized  the  fact  that  Nature  was  more  alive 
than  she  ever  had  been  to  him  who  had  always  loved 
her. 

The  thought  of  Barbara  went  on  growing  dear  to 
him.  He  never  pondered  anything  but  the  girl  her- 
self, cherished  no  dreams  of  her  becoming  more  to 
him,  of  her  ever  being  nearer  than  away  there;  just 
to  know  her  was  now,  and  henceforward  ever  would 
be  the  gladness  of  his  life.  If  that  life  was  but  for 
a  season  ;  if  the  very  core  of  life  was  decay  ;  if  life 
was  because  nobody  could  help  its  being  ;  if  it  died 
because  no  one  could  keep  it  from  dying ;  yet  were 
there  two  facts  fit  almost  to  embalm  the  body  of 
this  living  death  :  Barbara,  and  the  world  which  was 
the  body  of  Barbara  !  So  life  carried  the  day,  if 
but  the  day,  and  the  heart  of  Richard  rejoiced  in  the 
midst  of  perishings.  Only,  the  night  was  coming  in 
which  no  man  can  rejoice. 

Was  he  then  presuming  to  be  in  love  with  Bar- 
bara .?  I  do  Jiot  care  to  meet  the  question.  If  I  knew 
what  the  mysterious  M'ord,  love,  meant,  I  might  be 
able  to  answer  it,  but  what  should  I  thus  gain  or 
give.?  I  know  he  loved  her.  I  know  that  a  divine 
power  of  truth  and  beauty  had  laid  hold  upon  him, 
and  was  working  in  him  as  the  powers  of  God  alone 
can  work  in  man,  for  they  are  the  same  by  which  he 
lives  and  moves  and  has  his  being,  and  to  life  are 
more  than  meat  and  drink,  than  sun  and  air. 

Instead  of  blaming  as  a  matter  of  course  the  ]icr- 
son  who  does  not  believe  in  a  God,  we  should  think 
first  whether  his  notional  God  is  a  God  that  ought, 
or  a  God  that  ought  not  to  be  believed  in.      Perhaps 


A    HUMAN    GADFLY.  229 

he  only  is  to  be  blamed  who,  by  inattention  to  duty, 
has  become  less  able  to  believe  in  a  God  than  he 
was  once  :  because  he  did  not  obey  the  true  voice, 
whencesoever  it  came,  God  may  have  to  let  him 
taste  what  it  would  be  to  have  no  God.  For  aught 
I  know,  a  man  may  have  been  born  of  so  many 
generations  of  unbelief,  that  now,  at  this  moment,  he 
cannot  believe  ;  that  now,  at  this  moment,  he  has 
no  notion  of  a  God  at  all,  and  cannot  care  whether 
there  be  a  God  or  not ;  but  he  can  mind  what  he 
knows  he  ought  to  mind.  That  will,  that  alone  can 
clear  the  moral  atmosphere,  and  make  it  possible  for 
the  true  idea  of  a  God  to  be  born  into  it. 

For  some  time  Richard  saw  little  of  Barbara. 

The  heads  of  the  house  did  not  interfere  with  him. 
Lady  Ann  would  now  and  then  sail  through  the  room 
like  an  iceberg  ;  Sir  Wilton  would  come  in,  give  a 
glance  at  the  shelves  and  a  grin,  and  walk  out  again 
with  a  more  or  less  gouty  gait ;  so  much  was  about 
all  their  contact.  Arthur  was  a  little  ashamed  of 
having  spoken  to  him  as  he  did,  and  had  again  be- 
come in  a  manner  friendly.  He  had  seen  several 
decaying  masses,  among  the  rest  thcGolding  of  their 
difference,  become  books  in  his  hands,  and  again  he 
had  grown  sufficiently  interested  in  the  workman  to 
feel  in  him  something  more  than  the  workman.  He 
was  on  the  way  to  perceive  that,  in  certain  insig- 
nificant things,  such  as  imagination,  reading,  insight, 
and  general  faculty,  not  to  mention  conscience,  gen- 
erosity, and  goodness  of  heart,  Richard  was  out  of 
sight  before  the  ruck  of  gentlemen.  He  saw  already 
that  in  some  things,  thought  a  good  deal  of  at  his 
college,  Richard  was  more  capable  than  himself.  He 
found  in  him  too  what  seemed  to  him  a  rare  notion 


230  THERE    AND    BACK. 

of  art.  In  truth  Richard's  advance  in  this  region 
was  as  yet  but  small,  for  he  was  guided  only  by  his 
limited  efforts  in  verse;  none  the  less,  however,  was 
he  far  ahead  of  Arthur,  who  saw  only  what  was 
shown  him.  In  literature  Arthur  had  already  learned 
something  from  Richard,  and  knew  it.  He  had  in- 
deed, without  knowing  it  begun  to  look  up  to  him. 

Richard  also  had  discovered  good  in  Arthur — 
among  other  things  a  careful  regard  to  his  word,  and 
to  his  father's  tenantry.  There  was  of  course,  in  a 
scanty  nature  Hke  his,  a  good  deal  of  the  lord  bounti- 
ful mingled  with  his  behavior  to  his  social  inferiors 
on  the  property  :  he  posed  to  himself  as  a  condescend- 
ing landlord. 

The  only  one  in  the  house  who  gave  Richard 
trouble,  was  the  child  Victoria.  The  way  she  always 
took  to  show  her  liking,  was  to  annoy  its  object. 
Never  was  name  less  fitting  than  hers  :  there  was  no 
victory  in  her.  She  could  but  fly  about  like  the 
veriest  mosquito.  Richard  let  her  come  and  go  un- 
heeded, except  when  her  proximity  to  his  work  made 
him  anxious.  But  the  little  vixen  would  not  consent 
to  be  naught  any  smallest  while.  She  would  rather 
be  abused  than  remain  unnoticed.  When  she  found 
that  her  standing  and  staring  procured  no  attention 
from  the  bookbinder,  she  would  begin  to  handle  his 
tools,  and  ask  what  this  and  that  was  for,  giving,  like 
a  woman  of  fashion,  no  heed  to  any  answer  he  ac- 
corded her.  Learning  thus,  that  is,  by  experiment, 
how  to  annoy  him,  she  did  not  let  opportunity  lack. 
When  school  was  over  In  the  morning,  and  she  could 
go  where  she  pleased,  she  went  often  to  the  library  ; 
and  as  no  one  willingly  asked  where  she  was,  the 
chief  pleasure  of  her  acquaintance  lying  in  the  assur- 


A    HUMAN    GADFLY. 


231 


ance  that  she  was  nowhere  at  hand,  Richard  had  to 
endure  many  things  from  her;  and  things  that  do  not 
seem  worth  enduring,  are  not  unfrequently  the  hard- 
est to  endure. 

The  behavior  of  the  child  grew  worse  and  worse. 
She  would  more  than  touch  everything,  and  that 
thing  the  most  persistently  which  Richard  was  most 
anxious  to  have  let  alone,  causing  him  no  little  trouble 
at  times  to  set  right  what  she  had  injured.  Worst  of 
all  was  her  persecution  when  she  found  him  using 
gold-leaf.  She  would  come  behind  him  and  blow  the 
film  away  just  as  he  had  got  it  flat  on  his  cushion,  or 
laid  on  the  spot  where  his  tool  was  about  to  fix  a  por- 
tion of  it.  Her  mischief  was  not  even  irradiated  by 
childish  laughter  ;  there  was  never  any  sign  of  frolic 
on  her  monkey  face,  except  the  steely  glitter  of  her 
sharp,  black-bead-eyes  might  be  supposed  to  contain 
some  sprinkle  of  fun  in  its  malice.  Expostulation  was 
not  of  the  slightest  use,  and  sometimes  it  was  all 
Richard  could  do  to  keep  his  hands  off  her.  Now 
she  would  look  as  stolid  as  if  she  did  not  understand 
a  word  he  said ;  now  pucker  up  her  face  into  a 
most  unpleasant  grin  of  derision  and  contemptuous 
defiance. 

One  day  when  he  happened  to  be  using  thepolish- 
ing-iron.  Vixen,  as  her  brothers  called  her,  came  in 
and  began  to  play  with  the  paste.  Richard,  turned 
with  the  iron  in  his  hand,  which  he  had  just  taken 
from  the  brasier.  He  was  rubbing  it  bright  and  clear, 
and  she  noted  this,  but  had  not  seen  him  take  it  from 
the  fire  :  she  caught  at  it,  to  spoil  it  with  her  pasty 
fingers.  As  quickly  she  let  it  go,  but  did  not  cry, 
though  her  eyes  filled.  Richard  saw,  and  his  heart 
gave  away.      He  caught  the  little  hand  so  swift  to  do 


232  THERE    AND    BACK. 


evil,  and  would  have  soothed  its  pain.  She  pulled  it 
from  him,  crying,  "  You  nasty  man  !  How  dare 
you  ? "  and  ran  to  the  door,  where  she  turned  and 
made  a  hideous  face  at  him.  The  same  moment,  by 
a  neighboring  door  that  opened  from  another  pas- 
sage, in  came  Barbara,  and  before  Vixen  was  well 
aware  of  her  presence,  had  dealt  her  such  a  box  on  the 
ear  that  she  burst  into  a  storm  of  wrathful  weeping. 
"You're  a  brute,  Bab,"  she  cried.  "I'll  tell 
mamma  !  " 

"  Do,  you  little  wretch  !  "  returned  Barbara,  whose 
flushed  face  looked  lovelily  childlike  in  its  indignation 
beside  the  furious  phiz  of  the  tormenting  imp. 

The  monkey-creature  left  the  room,  sobbing ;  and 
Barbara  turned  and  was  gone  before  Richard  could 
thank  her. 

He  heard  no  more  of  the  matter,  and  for  some  time 
had  no  farther  trouble  with  Victoria. 

Barbara  had  the  kindest  of  hearts,  but  there  was 
nothing  soft  about  her.  She  held  it  a  sin  to  spoil  any 
animal,  not  to  say  a  child.  For  she  had  a  strong 
feeling,  initiated  possibly  l^y  her  black  nurse,  that 
the  animals  went  on  living  after  death,  whence  she 
counted  it  a  shame  not  to  teach  them  ;  and  held  that, 
if  a  sharp  cut  would  make  child  or  dog  behave  prop- 
erly, the  woman  was  no  lover  of  either  who  would 
spare  it. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

RICHARD     AND     WINGFOLD. 

Barbara  had  more  than  once  or  twice  heard  Mr. 
Wingfold  preach,  but  had  not  once  listened,  or  even 
waked  to  the  fact  that  she  had  not  listened.  Unac- 
customed in  childhood  to  any  special  regard  of  the 
Sunday,  she  had  neither  pleasant  nor  unpleasant  as- 
sociations with  church-going  ;  but  she  liked  a  good 
many  things  better,  and  as  she  always  did  as  she 
liked  except  she  saw  reason  to  the  contrary,  she  had 
hitherto  gone  to  church  rather  seldom.  She  might 
perhaps  have  sooner  learned  to  go  regularly  but  for 
her  mother's  extraordinary  behavior  there  :  certainly 
she  could  not  sit  in  the  same  pew  with  her  reading 
her  novel.  Since  Mr.  Wingfold  had  taken  the  part  of 
the  prophet  Nathan,  and  rebuked  her,  she  had  indeed 
ceased  to  go  to  church,  but  Barbara,  as  I  have  said, 
was  as  yet  onlj'-  now  and  then  drawn  thitherward. 

Mr.  Wingfold  was  almost  as  different  from  the 
clergyman  of  Richard's  idea,  as  was  Richard's  im- 
agined God  from  any  believable  idea  of  God.  The 
two  men  had  never  yet  met,  for  what  should  bring 
a  workimg-man  and  the  clergyman  of  the  next 
parish  together.?  But  one  morning — he  ofien  went 
for  a  walk  in  the  early  morning — Richard  saw  before 
him,  in  the  middle  of  a  field-path,  seated  on  a  stile 
and  stopping  his  way,  the  back  of  a  man  in  a  gray 
suit,  evidently  enjoying,  like  himself,  the  hour  before 
sunrise.      He   knew   §omehow   that   he  was  not  a 


234 


THERE    AND    BACK. 


workiiig-man,  but  he  did  not  suspect  him  one  of  the 
obnoxious  class  which  lives  by  fooling  itself  and 
others.  Wingfold  heard  Richard's  step,  looked  round, 
knew  him  at  once  as  an  artisan  of  some  sort,  and  saw 
in  him  signs  of  purpose  and  character  strong  for  his 
years. 

"Jolly  morning  !  "  he  said. 

"It  is  indeed,  sir  !  "  answered  Richard. 

"  I  like  a  walk  in  the  morning  better  than  at  any 
other  time  of  the  day  !  "said  Wingfold. 

"Well,  sir,  1  do  so  too,  though  I  can't  tell  why. 
I've  often  tried,  but  I  haven't  yet  found  out  what 
makes  the  morning  so  different." 

" Come  !  "  thought  the  clergyman  ;  "here's  some- 
thing I  haven't  met  with  too  much  of  !  " 

Richard  remarked  to  him'self  that,  whoever  the 
gentleman  was,  he  was  certainly  not  stuck-up.  They 
might  have  parted  late  the  night  before,  instead  of 
meeting  now  for  the  first  time. 

"Are  you  a  married  man  ?  "  asked  Wingfold. 

"No,  sir,"  answered  Richard,  surprised  that  a 
stranger  should  put  the  question. 

"  If  you  had  been,"  Wingfold  went  on,  "I  should 
have  been  surer  of  your  seeing  what  I  mean  when  I 
say,  that  to  be  out  before  sunrise  is  like  looking  at 
your  best  friend  asleep — that  is,  before  her  sun,  her 
thought,  namely,  is  up.  Watching  her  face  then, 
you  see  it  come  to  life,  grow  radiant  with  sunrise." 

"  But,"  rejoined  Richard,  "I  have  seen  a  person 
asleep  whose  face  made  it  quite  evident  that  thought 
was  awake  !     It  was  shining  through  !" 

"Shining  through,  certainly,"  said  Wingfold,  ''not 
up.  I  doubt  indeed  if,  during  any  sleep,  thought  is 
quite  in  abeyance." 


RICHARD    AND    WINGFOLD.  235 

"Not  when  we  are  dead  asleep,  sir? — so  dead 
that  when  we  wake  we  don't  remember  anything  ?  " 

"  If  thought  in  such  a  case  must  be  proved,  it  will 
have  to  go  for  non-existent.  Yet,  when  you  reflect 
that  sometimes  you  discover  that  you  must,  a  few 
minutes  before,  wide  awake,  have  done  something 
which  you  have  no  recollection  of  having  done,  and 
which,  but  for  the  fact  remaining  evident  to  your 
sight,  you  would  nof  believe  you  had  done,  you  must 
feel  doubtful  as  to  the  loss  of  consciousness  in  sleep." 

"  Yes  ;  that  must  give  us  pause  !  " 

"Hamlet!"  said  the  clergyman  to  himself. 
"That's  good! — You  may  have  read  from  top  to 
bottom  of  a  page,  perhaps,"  he  went  on,  "without 
being  able  to  recall  a  word  :  would  you  say  no 
thought  had  passed  through  your  mind  in  the  pro- 
cess ? — that  the  words  had  suggested  nothing  as  you 
read  them }  " 

"  No,  sir,  I  should  be  inclined  to  say  that  I  forgot 
as  fast  as  I  read  ;  that,  as  I  read,  I  seemed  to  know 
the  thing  I  read,  but  the  process  of  forgetting  kept 
pace  for  pace  alongside  the  process  of  reading. " 

"  I  quite  agree  with  you. — Now  I  wonder  whether 
you  will  agree  wuth  me  in  what  I  am  going  to  sug- 
gest next !  ' 

"I  can't  tell  that,  sir,'' said  Richard — somewhat 
unnecessarily  ;  but  Wingfold  was  pleased  to  find  him 
cautious. 

"I  think,"  the  parson  continued,  "that  what  I 
want  in  order  to  be  able  afterward  to  recollect  a  thing, 
is  to  be  not  merely  conscious  of  the  thnig  when  it 
comes,  but  at  the  same  moment  conscious  of  myself. 
To  remember,  I  must  be  self-conscious  as  well  as 
thinsr-conscious." 


236  THERE    AND    BACK. 


"There  I  cannot  quite  follow  you." 

"  When  I  learn  the  meaning  of  a  word,  I  know  the 
word  ;  but  when  I  say  to  myself,  '  I  know  the  word,' 
there  comes  a  reflection  of  the  word  back  from  the 
mirror  of  my  mind,  making  a  second  impression, 
and  after  that  I  am  at  least  not  so  likely  to  forget  it. '" 

"  I  think  I  can  follow  you  so  far,"  said  Richard. 

"When,  then,"  pursued  the  parson.  "I  think 
about  the  impression  that  the  word  makes  upon  me, 
how  it  is  affecting  me  with  the  knowledge  of  itself, 
then  I  am  what  I  should  call  self-conscious  of  the 
-word — conscious  not  only  that  I  know  the  word,  but 
that  I  know  the  phenomena  of  knowing  the  word- 
conscious  of  what  I  am  as  regards  my  knowing  of 
the  word." 

"I  understand  so  far,  sir — at  least  I  think  I  do." 

"  Then  you  will  allow  that  a  word  with  its  reflec- 
tion and  mental  impact  thus  operated  upon  by  the 
mind  is  not  so  likely  to  be  forgotten  as  one  under- 
stood only  in  the  first  immediate  way?  " 

"Certainly,  sir." 

"Well,  then — mind  I  am  only  suggesting  ;  I  am 
not  proclaiming  a  fact,  still  less  laying  down  a  law  ; 
I  am  not  half  sure  enough  about  it  for  that — so  it  is 
with  our  dreams.  We  see,  or  hear,  and  are  con- 
scious that  we  do,  in  our  dreams  ;  our  consciousness 
shines  through  our  sleeping  features  to  the  eyes  that 
love  us ;  but  when  we  wake  we  have  forgotten 
everything.  There  was  thought  there,  but  not 
thought  that  could  be  remembered.  When,  how- 
ever, you  have  once  said  to  yourself  in  a  dream,  '  I 
think  I  am  dreaming ; '  you  always,  I  venture  to 
suspect,  remember  that  experience  when  you  wake 
from  it !  " 


RICHARD  AND  WINGFOLD. 


237 


"I  daresay  you  do,  sir.  But  there  are  many 
dreams  we  never  suspect  to  be  dreams  while  we  are 
dreaming  them,  which  yet  we  remember  all  the  same 
when  we  come  awake  !  " 

"Yes,  surely;  and  many  people  havesuch  memo- 
ries as  hold  every  word  and  every  fact  presented  to 
them.  But  I  was  not  meaning  to  discuss  the  phe- 
nomena of  sleep ;  I  only  meant  to  support  my 
simile  that  to  see  the  world  before  the  sun  is  up,  is 
like  looking  on  the  sleeping  face  of  a  friend.  There 
is  thought  in  the  sleeping  face  of  your  friend,  and 
thought  in  the  twilight  face  of  nature  ;  but  the  face 
awake- with  thought  is  the  world  awake  with  sun- 
light." 

"There  I  cannot  go  with  you,  sir,"  said  Richard, 
who,  for  all  the  impression  Barbara  had  made  upon 
him,  had  not  yet  thought  of  the  world  as  in  any 
sense  alive ;  it  was  to  him  but  an  aggregate  of  laws 
and  results,  the  great  dissecting-room  of  creation, 
the  happy  hunting  ground  of  the  goddess  who  calls 
herself  Science,  though  she  can  claim  to  understand 
as  yet  no  single  fact. 

"Why  ?  "  asked  Wingfold. 

"Because  I  cannot  receive  the  simile  at  all.  I 
cannot  allow  expression  of  thought  where  no  thought 
is." 

Here  a  certain  look  on  the  face  of  the  young  work- 
man helped  the  parson  toward  understanding  the 
position  he  meant  to  take. 

"  Ah  !"  he  answered,  "I  see  I  mistook  you!  I 
understand  now  !  Sleep  she  or  wake  she,  you  will 
not  allow  thought  on  the  face  of  Nature  !  Am  I 
right  ?  " 


238  THERE    AND    BACK. 


"That  is  what  I  would  say,  sir,"  answered 
Richard. 

"We  must  look  at  that!"  returned  Wingfold. 
"That  would  be  scanned  ! — You  would  conceive  the 
world  as  a  sort  of  machine  that  goes  for  certain  pur- 
poses— like  a  clock,  for  instance,  whose  duty  it  is  to 
tell  the  time  of  the  day  .? — Do  I  represent  you  truly.?  " 

"So  far,  sir.  Only  one  machine  may  have  many 
uses  !  " 

"True  !  A  clock  may  do  more  for  us  than  tell  the 
time  !  It  may  tell  how  fast  it  is  going,  and  wake 
solemn  thought.  But  if  you  came  upon  a  machine 
that  constantly  waked  in  you — not  thoughts  only, 
but  the  most  delicate  and  indescribable  feelings — 
what  would  you  say  then  .?  Would  you  allow  thought, 
there }  " 

"  Surely  not  that  the  machine  was  thinking  !  " 

"Certainly  not.  But  would  you  allow  thought 
concerned  in  it.-*  Would  you  allow  that  thought 
must  have  preceded  and  occasioned  its  existence  ? 
Would  you  allow  that  thought  therefore  must  yet 
be  interested  in  its  power  to  produce  thought,  and 
might,  if  it  chose,  minister  to  the  continuance  or 
enlargement  of  the  power  it  had  originated  ?  " 

"Perhaps  I  should  be  compelled  to  allow  that 
much  in  regard  to  a  clock  even  !— Are  we  coming  to 
the  Paley-argument,  sir.?"  said  Richard. 

"I  think  not,"  answered  Wingfold.  "  My  argu- 
ment seems  to  me  one  of  my  own.  It  is  not  drawn 
from  design  but  from  operation  :  where  a  thing 
wakes  thought  and  feeling,  I  say,  must  not  thought 
and  feeling  be  somewhere  concerned  in  its  origin  ? " 

"Might  not   the   thought   and   feeling   come   by 


RICHARD  AND  WINGFOLD. 


239 


association,  as  in  the  case  of  the  clock  suggesting- 
the  flight  of  time  ?  " 

"I  think  our  associations  can  hardly  be  so  multi- 
form, or  so  delicate,  as  to  have  a  share  in  bringing 
to  us  half  of  the  thoughts  and  feelings  that  nature 
wakes  in  us.  If  they  have  such  a  share,  they  must 
have  reference  either  to  a  fore-existence,  or  to  rela- 
tions hidden  in  our  being,  over  which  we  have  no 
control ;  and  equally  in  such  case  are  the  thoughts 
and  feelings  waked  in  us,  not  by  us.  I  do  not  want 
to  argue ;  I  am  only  suggesting  that,  if  the  world 
moves  thought  and  feeling  in  those  that  regard  it, 
thought  and  feeling  are  somehow  concerned  in  the 
world.  Even  to  wake  old  feelings,  there  must  be  a 
likeness  to  them  in  what  wakes  them,  else  how  could 
it  wake  them  ?  In  a  word,  feeling  must  have  put 
itself  into  the  shape  that  awakes  feeling.  Then  there 
is  feeling  in  the  thing  that  bears  that  shape,  although 
itself  it  does  not  feel.  Therefore  I  think  it  may  be 
said  that  there  is  more  thought,  or,  rather,  more  ex- 
pression of  thought,  in  the  face  of  the  world  when 
the  sun  is  up,  than  when  he  is  not — as  there  is  more 
thought  in  a  face  awake  than  in  a  face  asleep. — Ah, 
there  is  the  sun  !  and  there  are  things  that  ought 
never  to  be  talked  about  in  their  presence  !  To  talk 
of  some  things  even  behind  their  backs  will  keep 
them  away  !  " 

Richard  neither  understood  his  last  words,  nor 
knew  that  he  did  not  understand  them.  But  he  did 
understand  that  it  was  better  to  watch  the  sunrise 
than  to  talk  of  it. 

Up  came  the  child  of  heaven,  conquering  in  the 
truth,  in  the  might  of  essential  being.  It  was  no 
argument,  but  the  presence  of  God  that  silenced  the 


240  THERE    AND    BACK. 

racked  heart  of  Job.  The  men  stood  lost  in  the 
swift  changes  of  his  attendant  colors — from  red  to 
gold,  from  the  human  to  the  divine — as  he  ran  to  the 
horizon  from  beneath,  and  came"  up  with  a  rush, 
eternally  silent.  With  a  moan  of  delight  Richard 
turned  to  his  gazing  companion,  when  he  beheld  that 
on  his  face  which  made  him  turn  from  him  again  : 
he  had  seen  what  was  not  there  for  human  eyes  ! 
The  radiance  of  Wingfold's  countenance,  the  human 
radiance  that  met  the  solar  shine,  surpassed  even 
that  which  the  moon  and  the  sky  and  the  sleeping 
earth  brought  out  that  night  upon  the  face  of  Barbara  ! 
The  one  was  the  waking,  the  other  but  the  sweetly 
dreaming  world. 

Richard  refused  to  let  any  emotion,  primary  or 
reflex,  influence  his  opinions  ;  they  must  be  de- 
termined by  fact  and  severe  logical  outline.  What- 
ever was  not  to  him  definite — that  is,  was  not  by  him 
formally  conceivable,  must  not  be  put  in  the  cate- 
gory of  things  to  be  believed  ;  but  he  had  not  a  notion 
how  many  things  he  accepted  unquestioning,  which 
were  yet  of  this  order  ;  and  not  being  only  a  thing 
that  thought,  but  a  thin^  as  well  that  was  thought, 
he  could  not  help  being  more  influenced  by  such  a 
sight  than  he  would  have  chosen  to  be,  and  the  fact 
that  he  was  so  influenced  remained.  Happily,  the 
choice  whether  we  shall  be  influenced  is  not  given 
us  ;  happily,  too,  the  choice  whether  we  shall  obey 
an  influence  zs  given  us. 

Without  a  word,  Richard  lifted  his  hat  to  the 
stranger,  and  walked  on,  leaving  him  where  he  stood, 
but  taking  with  him  a  germ  of  new  feeling,  which 
would  enlarge  and  divide  and  so  multiply.  When  he 
got  to  the  next  stile,  he  looked  back,  and  saw  him 
seated  as  at  first,  but  now  reading. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

WINGFOLD    AND    HIS    WIFE. 

Thomas  Wingfold  closed  his  book,  replaced  it  in  his 
pocket,  got  down  from  the  stile,  turned  his  face 
toward  home,  crossed  field  after  field,  and  arrived 
just  in  time  to  meet  his  wife  as  she  came  down  the 
stairs  to  breakfast. 

"■  Have  you  had  a  nice  walk,  Thomas  ?  "  she 
asked. 

"Indeed  I  have  !  "  he  answered.  "Almost  from 
the  first  I  was  right  out  in  the  open." — His  wife 
knew  what  he  meant. — "Before  the  sun  came  up," 
he  went  on,  ' '  I  had  to  go  in,  and  come  out  at  another 
door ;  but  I  was  soon  very  glad  of  it.  I  had  met  a 
fellow  who,  I  think,  will  pluck  his  feet  out  of  the 
mud  before  long." 

"  Have  you  asked  him  to  the  rectory?  " 

"No." 

"Shall  I  write  and  ask  him.?  " 

"No,  my  wife.  For  one  thing,  you  can't  :  I  don't 
know  his  name,  and  I  don't  know  what  he  is,  or 
where  he  lives.     But  we  shall  meet  again  soon." 

"Then  you  have  made  an  appointment  with 
him  !  " 

"No,  I  haven't.  But  there's  an  undertow  bring- 
ing us  on  to  each  other.  It  would  spoil  all  if  he 
thought  I  threw  a  net  for  him.  I  do  mean  to  catch 
him  if  I  can,  but  I  will  not  move  till  the  tide  brings 
him  into  my  arms.     At  least,  that  is  how  the  thing 


242  THERE    AND    BACK. 


looks  to  me  at  present.  I  believe  enough  not  to 
make  haste.  I  don't  want  to  throw  salt  on  any  bird's 
tail,  but  I  do  want  the  birds  to  come  hopping  about 
me,  that  I  may  teli  them  what  I  know  !  " 

As  near  as  he  could,  Wingfold  recounted  the 
conversation  he  had  had  with  Richard. 

"  He  was  a  fine  looking  fellow,"  he  said,  " — not 
exactly  a  gentleman,  but  not  far  off  it ;  little  would 
make  him  one.  He  looked  a  man  that  could  do 
things,  but  I  did  not  satisfy  myself  as  to  what  might 
be  his  trade.  He  showed  no  sign  of  it,  or  made  any 
allusion  to  it.  But  he  was  more  at  home  in  the  work- 
shop of  his  own  mind  than  is  at  all  usual  with  fellows 
of  his  age." 

"  It  must,"  said  Helen,  "be  old  Simon  Armour's 
grandson  !  I  have  heard  of  him  from  several  quarters; 
and  your  description  would  just  fit  him.  I  know 
somebody  that  could  tell  you  about  him,  but  I  wish 
I  knew  anybody  that  could  tell  us  about  her — I  mean 
Miss  Wylder. " 

"I  like  the  look  of  that  girl  !  "  said  the  parson, 
warmly.  "  What  makes  you  think  she  could  tell  us 
about  my  new  acquaintance  .'  " 

"  Only  an  impertinent  speech  of  that  little  simian. 
Vixen  Lestrange.  I  forget  what  she  said,  but  it  left 
the  impression  of  an  acquaintance  between  Bab,  as 
she  called  her,  and  some  working  fellow  the  child 
could  not  bear." 

"The  enmity  of  that  child  is  praise.  I  wonder 
how  the  Master  would  have  treated  her  !  He  could 
not  have  taken  her  between  his  knees,  and  said  who- 
soever received  her  received  him  !  A  child-mask 
witli  a  monkey  inside  it  will  only  serve  a  sentimental 
mother  to  talk  platitudes  about  !  " 


WINGFOLD    AND    HIS    WIFE.  243 

"Don't  be  too  hard  on  the  monkeys,  Tom  !  "  said 
his  wife,  "You  don't  know  what  they  may  turn 
out  to  be,  after  all !  " 

"Surely  it  is  not  too  hard  on  the  monkeys  to  call 
them  monkeys  !  " 

"  No;  but  when  the  monkey  has  already  begun  to 
be  a  child  !  " 

"There  is  the  whole  point!  Has  the  monkey 
always  begun  to  be  a  child  when  he  gets  the  shape 
of  a  child  ? — Miss  Wylder  is  not  quite  so  seldom  in 
church  now,  I  think  !  " 

"I  saw  her  there  last  Sunday.  But  I'm  afraid  she 
wasn't  thinking  much  about  what  you  were  saying 
— she  sat  with  such  a  stony  look  in  her  eyes  !  She 
did  seem  to  come  awake  for  one  moment,  though  !  '' 

"Tell  me." 

"I  could  hardly  take  my  eyes  off  her,  my  heart 
was  so  drawn  to  her.  There  was  a  mingling  of  love 
and  daring,  almost  defiance,  in  her  look,  that  seemed 
to  say,  *  If  you  are  worth  it — if  you  are  worth  it — 
then  through  fire  and  water  !  '  All  at  once  a  flash 
lighted  up  her  lovely  child-face — and  what  do  you 
think  you  were  at  the  moment  saying.? — that  the 
flower  of  a  plant  was  deeper  than  the  root  of  it :  that 
was  what  roused  her  !  " 

"And  I  when  I  found  what  I  had  said,  thought, 
with  myself  what  a  fool  1  was  to  let  out  things  my 
congregation  could  not  possibly  understand  ! — But  to 
reach  one  is,  in  the  end,  to  reach  all !  " 

"I  must  in  honesty  tell  you,  however,"  pursued 
Mrs.  Wingfold,  "that  the  next  minute  she  looked  as 
far  off  as  before ;  nor  did  she  shine  up  once  again 
that  I  saw." 

' '  I  will  be  glad,  though, "  said  Wingfold,   ' '  because 


244  THERE    AND    BACK. 

of  what  you  tell  me  !  It  shows  there  is  a  window 
in  her  house  that  looks  in  my  direction  :  some  signa;! 
may  one  day  catch  her  eye  !  That  she  has  a  char- 
acter of  her  own,  a  real  one,  I  strongly  suspect  Her 
mother  more  than  interests  me.  She  certainly  has  a 
tine  nature.  How  much  better  is  a  fury  than  a  fish  ! 
You  cannot  be  downright  angry  save  in  virtue  of  the 
love  possible  to  you.  The  proper  person,  who  always 
does  and  says  the  correct  thing — well,  I  think  that 
person  is  almost  sure  to  be  a  liar.  At  the  same  time, 
the  contradictions  in  the  human  individual  are  be- 
wildering, even  appalling  ! — Now  I  must  go  to  my 
study,  and  think  out  a  thing  that's  bothering  me  ! — 
By  the  way," — he  always  said  that  when  he  was  go- 
ing to  make  her  a  certain  kind  of  present ;  she  knew 
what  was  coming — "here's  something  for  you — if 
you  can  read  it !  I  had  just  scribbled  it  this  morning 
when  the  young  man  came  up.  I  made  it  last  night. 
1  was  hours  awake  after  we  went  to  bed  !  " 
This  is  what  he  gave  her  : — 

A  SONG  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

A  brown  bird  sang  on  a  blossomy  tree, 
vSang  in  the  moonshine,  merrily, 
Three  Httle  songs,  one,  two,  and  three, 
A  song  for  his  wife,  for  himself,  and  me. 

He  sang  for  his  wife,  sang  low,  sang  high, 
Filling  the  moonlight  that  filled  the  sky, 
"  Thee,  thee,  I  love  thee,  heart  alive  ! 
Thee,  thee,  thee,  and  thy  round  eggs  five  !  " 

He  sang  to  himself,   "  What  shall  I  do 

With  this  life  that  thrills  me  through  and  through  ! 

Glad  is  so  glad  that  it  turns  to  ache  ! 

Out  with  it,  song,  or  my  heart  will  break  !  " 


WINGFOLD    AND    HIS    WIFE. 

He  sang  to  me,    "  Man,  do  not  fear 

Though  the  moon  goes  down,  and  the  dark  is  near  ; 

Listen  my  song,  and  rest  thine  eyes  ; 

Let  the  moon  go  down  that  the  sun  may  rise  !  " 

I  folded  me  up  in  the  heart  of  his  tune, 
And  fell  asleep  in  the  sinking  moon  ; 
I  woke  with  the  day's  first  golden  gleam, 
And  lo,  I  had  dreamed  a  precious  dream ! 


245 


CHAPTER    XXVI. 


RICHARD  AND  ALICE. 


One  evening  Richard  went  to  see  his  grandfather, 
and  asked  if  he  would  allow  him  to  give  Miss  Wylder 
a  lesson  in  horse-shoeing  :  she  wanted,  he  said,  to  be 
able  to  shoe  Miss  Brown — or  indeed  any  horse. 
Simon  laughed  heartily  at  the  proposal  :  it  was  tgo 
great  an  absurdity  to  admit  of  serious  objection  ! 

"Ah,  you  don't  know  Miss  Wylder,  grandfather  !  " 
said  Richard. 

"Of  course  not!  Never  an  old  man  knew  any- 
thing about  a  girl  !  It's  only  the  young  fellows  can 
fathom  a  woman  !  Having  girls  of  his  own  blinds  a 
man  to  the  nature  of  them  !  There's  going  to  be  a 
law  passed  against  growing  old  !  It's  an  unfortunate 
habit  the  world's  got  into  somehow,  and  the  young 
fellows  are  going  to  put  a  stop  to  it  for  fear  of  losing 
their  wisdom  !  "■ 

As  the  blacksmith  spoke,  he  went  on  rasping  and 
filing  at  a  housedoor-key,  fast  in  a  vice  on  his  bench  ; 
and  his  words  seemed  to  Richard  to  fall  from  his 
mouth  like  the  raspings  from  his  rasp. 

"Well,  grandfather, "  said  Richard,  "if  INIiss  Wyl- 
der don't  astonish  you,  she'll  astonish  me  ! '" 

"  Have  you  ever  seen  her  drive  a  nail,  boy  ?  " 

"Not  once  ;  but  I  am  just  as  sure  she  will  do  it — 
and  better  than  any  beginner  you've  seen  yet !  " 

"Well,  well,  lad  !  we'll  see  !  we'll  see  !  She's  wel- 


RICHARD    AND    ALICE.  247 


come  anyhow  to  come  and  have  her  try  !  What  day 
shall  it  be  ?  " 

"  That  I  can't  tell  yet." 

"It  makes  me  grin  to  think  o' them  doll's  hands 
with  a  great  hoof  in  them  !  " 

* '  They  are  little  hands — she's  little  herself — but  they 
ain't  doll's  hands,  grandfather.  You  should  have  seen 
her  box  Miss  Vixen's  ears  for  making  a  face  at  me  ! 
Her  ears  didn't  take  them  for  doll's  hands,  I'll  be 
bound  !     The  room  rang  again  !  " 

"Bring  her  when  you  like,  lad,"  said  Simon. 

It  was  moonlight,  and  when  Richard  arrived  at 
the  lodgeless  gate,  he  saw  inside  it,  a  few  yards 
away,  seated  on  a  stone,  the  form  of  a  woman.  He 
thought  the  first  moment,  as  was  natural,  of  Barbara, 
but  the  next,  he  knew  that  this  was  something 
strange.  She  sat  in  helpless,  hopeless  attitude,  with 
her  head  in  her  hands.  A  strange  dismay  came  upon 
him  at  the  sight  of  her  ;  his  heart  fluttered  in  a  cage 
of  fear.  He  did  not  believe  in  ghosts.  If  he  saw 
one,  it  would  but  show  that  sometimes  when  a 
person  died  there  was  a  shadow  left  that  was  like 
him  !  There  might  be  millions  of  ghosts,  and  no  God 
the  more  !  What  are  we  all  but  spectres  of  the  un- 
known ?  What  was  death  but  a  vanishing  of  the  un- 
known .?  What  are  the  dead  but  vanishments  !  Yet 
he  shuddered  at  the  thought  that  he  had  actually 
come  upon  one  of  the  dead  that  are  still  alive,  of 
whom,  once  or  twice  in  a  long  century,  one  is  met 
wandering  vaguely  about  the  world,  unable  to  find 
what  used  to  make  it  home.  He  peered  through  the 
iron  bars  as  into  a  charnel-house  :  one  such  wan- 
derer was  enough  to  make  the  whole  vault  of  night  a 
gaping  tomb. 


248  THERE    AND    BACK. 


Puttiaig  his  key  in  the  lock  made  a  sharp  little 
noise.  The  figure  started  up,  her  face  gleaming 
white  in  the  moon,  but  dropped  again  on  her  stone, 
unable  to  stand.  Richard  could  not  take  his  eyes 
off  her.  While  closing  the  gate  he  dared  not  turn 
his  back  to  her.  She  sat  motionless  as  before,  her 
head  in  her  hands,  her  elbows  on  her  knees.  He 
stood  for  a  moment  staring  and  trembling,  then,  with 
an  effort  of  the  will  that  approached  agony,  went  to- 
ward her.  As  he  drew  nearer,  he  began  to  feel  as  if 
he  had  once  known  her.  He  must  have  seen  her  in 
London  somewhere,  he  thought.  But  why  was  her 
shadow  sitting  there,  the  lonely  hostless  guest  of  the 
night's  caravansary  ? 

He  went  nearer.  The  form  remained  motionless. 
Something  reminded  him  of  Alice  Manson. 

He  laid  his  hand  on  the  .figure.  It  was  a  woman 
to  the  touch  as  well  as  to  the  eye.  But  not  yet  did 
she  move  an  inch.  He  would  have  raised  her  face. 
Then  she  resisted.  All  at  once  he  was  sure  she  was 
Alice. 

"Alice  !  "  he  cried.      "  Good  God  ! — sitting  in  the 
cold  night !  " 
•  She  made  him  no  answer,  sat  stone-still. 

"  What  shall  I  do  for  you  ?  "  he  said. 

"Nothing,"  she  answered,  in  a  voice  that  might 
well  have  been  that  of  a  spectre.  "Leave  me,"  she 
added,  as  if  with  the  last  entreaty  of  despair. 

"  You  are  in  trouble,  Alice  !  "  he  persisted.  "Why 
are  you  so  far  from  home }     Where's  Arthur .?  " 

"What  right  have  you  to  question  me.?  "she  re- 
turned, almost  fiercely. 

"None  but  that  I  am  your  brother's  friend." 


RICHARD    AND    ALICE. 


249 


"Friend!"  she  echoed,  in  a  faint,  far-away 
voice. 

"You  forget,  Ahce,  that  I  did  all  I  could  to  be 
your  friend,  and  you  would  not  let  me  !  " 

She  neither  spoke  nor  moved.  Her  stillness 
seemed  to  say,   "Neither  will  I  now." 

"  Where  are  you  going-.?  "  he  asked,  after  a  hope- 
less pause. 

"Nowhere." 

"  Why  did  you  leave  London  ?  " 

"Why  should  I  tell  you  ?  " 

"  I  think  you  will  tell  me  !  " 

"  I  will  not." 

"You  know  I  would  do  anything  for  you !  * 

"I  daresay  !  " 

"You  know  I  would  !  " 

"I  don't." 

"  Try  me." 

"  I  will  not." 

Her  voice  grew  more  and  more  faint  and  forced. 
Her  words  and  it  were  very  unlike. 

"Don't  go  on  like  that,  Alice.  You're  not  being 
reasonable,"  pleaded  Richard. 

"Oh,  do  leave  me  alone  !  " 

"I  won't  leave  you." 

"  As  you  please  !     It's  nothing  to  me." 

"Alice,  why  do  you  speak  to  me  like  that.?  Tell 
me  what's  wrong." 

"Everything  is  wrong.  Everybody  is  wrong. 
The  whole  world  is  wrong." 

Her  voice  was  a  little  stronger.  She  raised  herself, 
and  looked  him  in  the  face. 

"  I  hope  not." 

"I  hope  it  is!  " 


250 


THERE    AND    BACK. 


"  Why  should  you  ?  " 

"To  think  things  were  right  would  be  too  terrible  ! 
I  say  everything's  wrong." 

"What's  to  be  done,  then.?"  sighed  Richard. 

"I  must  get  out  of  it  all," 

"  But  how  ?  " 

"There  is  only  one  way." 

"What  is  that.?" 

"  Everybody  knows." 

"Alice,"  cried  Richard,  nearly  in  despair  like 
herself,    "are  you  out  of  your  mind.?  " 

"Pretty  nearly. — Why  shouldn't  I  be  ?  There  are 
plenty  of  us  !  " 

"Alice,  if  you  won't  tell  me  what  is  the  matter  with 
you,  if  you  won't  let  me  help  you,  I  will  sit  down  by 
you  till  the  morning." 

"  What  if  I  drop  .?  " 

"Then  I  will  carry  you  away.  The  sooner  you 
drop  the  better." 

Her  resolution  seemed  to  break. 

"  I  ain't  eaten  a  mouthful  to-day,"  she  said. 

"My  poor  girl  !  Promise  me  to  wait  till  I  come 
back.     Here,  put  on  my  coat." 

She  was  past  resisting  more,  and  allowed  him  to 
button  his  coat  about  her. 

But  he  was  in  great  perplexity  :  where  was  he  to 
get  anything  for  her?  And  how  was  she  to  live  till 
he  brought  it.?  It  was  terrible  to  think  of!  Alice 
with  nothing  to  eat,  and  no  refuge  but  a  stone  in  the 
moonlight !  This  was  what  her  religion  had  done 
for  Alice  ! 

"Miss  Wylder's  God!"  he  said  to  himself  with 
contempt.  "  He's  well  enough  for  the  wind  and  the 
stars  and  the  moonlight  !  but  for  human  beings — for 


RICHARD    AND    ALICE.  25 1 


Alice — for  creatures  dying  of  hunger,  what  a  mock- 
ery !  If  he  were  there,  it  would  be  a  sickness  to  talk 
of  him  !  Beauty  is  beauty,  but  for  anything  behind 
it — pooh  !  " 

He  stood  a  moment  hesitating.  Alice  swayed  on 
her  seat,  and  would  have  fallen.  He  caught  her— 
and  in  the  act  remembered  a  little  cottage,  a  hut 
rather,  down  a  lane  a  short  way  off.  He  took  her 
in  his  arms  and  started  for  it. 

She  was  dreadfully  thin,  but  a  strong  man  cannot 
walk  very  fast  carrying  a  woman,  however  light  she 
be,  and  she  had  half  come  to  herself  before  he  reached 
the  cottage. 

"Richard,  dear  Richard!"  she  murmured  at  his 
ear,  *' where  are  you  carrying  me  .?  Are  you  going 
to  kill  me,  or  are  you  taking  me  home  with  you  ? 
Do  set  me  down.  Where's  Arthur?  I  will  let  you 
be  good  to  me  !     I  will  !     I  can't  hold  out  forever  ! " 

She  seemed  to  be  dreaming — apparently  about  their 
meeting  in  Regent-Street ;  or  perhaps  she  was  delir- 
ious from  want  of  food.  He  walked  on  without  at- 
tempting to  answer  her.  Some  great  wrong  had  been 
done  her,  and  his  heart  sank  within  him  ;  for  he  be- 
lieved in  no  judgment,  no  final  setting  right  of  wrongs. 
He  knew  of  nothing  belter  than  that  the  wronged 
and  the  wronger  would  cease  together.  Certainly,  if 
his  creed  represented  fact,  the  best  thing  in  existence 
is  that  it  has  no  essential  life  in  it,  that  it  cannot  con- 
tinue, that  it  must  cease  :  the  good  of  living  is  that 
we  must  die.  The  hope  of  death  is  the  inspiration 
of  Buddhism  !  His  heart  ached  with  pity  for  the  girl. 
His  help,  his  tenderness  expanded,  and  folded  her  in 
the  wings  of  a  shelter  that  was  not  empty  because 
his  creed  was  false. 


252  THERE    AND    BACK. 


"  She  belongs  to  me  !  "  he  said  to  himself.  "The 
world  has  thrown  her  off  :  '  be  it  lawful  I  take  up 
what's  cast  away  !  '  Here  is  the  one  treasure,  a 
human  being  !  the  best  thing  in  the  world  !  I  will 
cherish  it.  Poor  girl  !  she  shall  at  least  know  one 
man  a  refuge  !  " 

The  cottage  was  a  wretched  place,  but  a  laborer 
and  his  family  lived  in  it.  He  knocked  many  times. 
A  sleepy  voice  answered  at  last,  and  presently  a 
sleepy-eyed  man  half  opened  the  door. 

"  What's  the  deuce  of  a  row  ?  "  he  grunted. 

"Here's  a  young  woman  half  dead  with  hunger 
and  cold  !  "  said  Richard.  "You  must  take  her  in  or 
she'll  die  !  " 

"Can't  you  take  her  somewhere  else.?" 

"There's  nowhere  else  near  enough. — Come,  come, 
let  us  in  !  You  wouldn't  have  her  die  on  your  door- 
step !  " 

"  I  don'ow  as  I  see  the  sense  o'  bringin'  her  here  !  " 
answered  the  man  sleepily.  "We  ain't  out  o' the 
hunger-wood  ourselves  yet  !  — Wife  !  here's  a  chap  as 
says  he's  picked  up  a  young  *oman  a  dyin'  o'  'unger  ! 
— 'tain't  likely,  be  it,  i'  this  land  o'  liberty.?  " 

"Likely  enough,  Giles,  where  the  liberty's  mainly 
to  starve  !  "  replied  a  feminine  voice.  "  Let  un  bring 
the  poor  thing  in.  There  ain't  nowhere  to  put  her, 
an'  there  ain't  nothin'  to  give  her,  but  she  can't  lie 
out  in  the  wide  world  !  " 

"Ain't  you  got  a  drop  o'  milk.?"  asked  Richard. 

"Milk!"  echoed  the  woman*  "it's  weeks  an' 
weeks  the  childer  ain't  tasted  of  it!  The  wonder  to 
me  is  that  the  cows  let  a  poor  man  milk  'em  ! " 

Rich^ird  set  Alice  on  her  feet,  but  she  could  not 
stand  alone;  had  he  taken  his  arm  from  round  her, 


RICHARD    AND    ALICE.  253 

she  would  have  fallen  in  a  heap.  But  the  woman 
while  she  spoke  had  been  getting  a  light,  and  now 
came  to  the  door  with  a  candle-end.  Her  husband 
kept  prudently  in  her  shadow. 

"Poor  thing!  poor  thing!  she  be  far  gone!" 
she  said,  when  she  saw  her.  "Bring  her  in,  sir. 
There's  a  chair  she  can  sit  upon.  I'll  get  her  a  drop 
o'  tea — that'll  be  better'n  milk  !  There's  next  to  no 
work,  and  the  squire  he  be  mad  wi'  Giles  acause  o' 
some  rabbit  or  other  they  says  he  snared — which  they 
did  say  it  was  a  hare — I  don'ow  :  take  the  skin  off, 
an'  who's  to  tell  t'one  from  t'other  !  I  do  know  I 
was  right  glad  on't  for  the  childer !  An'  if  the  parson 
tell  me  my  man  'ill  be  damned  for  hare  or  rabbit,  an' 
the  childer  starvin',  I'll  give  him  a  bit  o'  my  mind. 
— '  No,  sir  !  "  says  I ;  '  God  ain't  none  o'  your  sort !  ' 
says  I,  '  An'  p'r'aps  the  day  may  be  at  hand  when 
the  rich  an'  the  poor  '11  have  a  turn  o'  a  change  to- 
gether !  Leastways  there's  sbmethin'  like  it  some- 
wheres  i'  the  Bible,'  says  I,  'An  if  it  be  i'  the  Bible,' 
says  I,  '  it's  likely  to  be  true,  for  the  Bible  do  take  the 
part  o'  the  rich — mostly  ! '  " 

She  was  a  woman  who  liked  to  hear  herself  talk, 
and  so  spoke  as  one  listening  to  herself.  Like  most 
people,  whether  they  talk  or  not,  she  got  her  ideas 
second-hand  ;  but  Richard  was  nowise  inclined  to 
differ  with  what  she  said  about  the  Bible,  for  he 
knew  little  more  and  no  better  about  it  than  she. 
Had  parson  Wingfold,  who  did  know  the  Bible  as 
few  parsons  know  it,  heard  her,  he  would  have  told 
her  that,  by  search  express  and  minute,  he  had  satis- 
fied himself  that  there  was  not  a  word  in  the  Bible 
against  the  poor,  although  a  multitude  of  words 
against  the  rich.     The  sins  of  the  poor  are  not  once 


2  54  THERE    AND    BACK. 


mentioned  in  the  Bible,  the  sins  of  the  rich  very 
often.  The  rich  may  think  this  hard,  but  I  state  the 
fact,  and  do  not  much  care  what  they  think.  When 
they  come  to  judge  themselves  and  others  fairly  they 
will  understand  that  God  is  no  respecter  of  persons, 
not  favoring  even  the  poor  in  his  cause. 

Richard  set  Alice  on  the  one  chair,  by  the  poor 
little  fire  the  woman  was  coaxing  to  heat  the  water 
she  had  put  on  it  in  a  saucepan.  Alice  stared  at  the 
fire,  but  hardly  seemed  to  see  it.  The  woman  tried 
to  comfort  her.  Richard  looked  round  the  place  : 
the  man  was  in  the  bed  that  filled  one  corner  ;  a 
mattress  in  another  was  crowded  with  children ; 
there  was  no  spot  where  she  could  lie  down. 

"I  shall  be  back  as  soon's  ever  I  can,"  he  said, 
and  left  the  cottage. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 


He  hurried  back  over  the  bare,  moon-white  road. 
He  had  seen  Miss  Wylder  come  that  morning,  and 
hoped  to  reach  the  house,  which  was  not  very  far 
off,  before  she  should  have  gone  to  bed.  Of  her 
alone  in  that  house  did  he  feel  he  could  ask  the  help  he 
needed.  If  she  had  gone  home,  he  would  try  the 
gardener's  wife  !  But  he  wanted  a  woman  with  wit 
as  well  as  will.  He  would  help  himself  from  the 
larder  if  he  could  not  do  better — but  there  would  be 
no  brandy  there  ! 

Many  were  the  thoughts  that,  as  now  he  walked, 
now  ran,  passed  swiftly  through  his  mind.  It  was 
strange,  he  said  to  himself,  that  this  girl,  of  whom 
he  had  seen  so  little,  yet  in  whom  he  felt  so  great  an 
interest,  should  reappear  in  such  dire  necessity ! 
When  last  he  saw  her,  she  hurt  herself  in  frantic 
escape  from  him  ;  now  she  could  not  escape  ! 

Whence  she  had  come  or  how  it  had  happened  that 
she  should  appear  thus  at  Mortgrange  Richard  could 
not  imagine.  But  with  him,  as  with  all  truly  un- 
selfish natures,  thought  was  action.  Alice  needed  aid 
and  attention  and  these  he  would  procure  for  her  be 
the  risk  what  it  might.  It  was  not  in  him  to  question 
when  suffering  appealed  for  relief  or  sorrow  for  sym- 
pathy. Time  might  clear  the  mystery  of  her  coming 
or  it  might  not ;  enough  for  him  that  the  girl  was  now 


256  THERE    AND    BACK. 

in  his  care.  He  would  help  her  unquestioning^  and 
trust  to  the  future  for  explanations. 

"  And  this  is  the  world,"  he  went  on,  "that  the 
priests  would  have  you  believe  ruled  by  the  provid- 
ence of  an  all  powerful  and  all  good  being !  Jlfy 
heart  is  sore  for  the  girl — a  good  girl,  if  ever  there 
was  one,  so  that  I  would  give — yes,  I  think  I  would 
give  my  life  for  her  !  I  certainly  would,  rather  than 
see  her  in  misery!  Of  course  I  would!  Any  man 
would,  worth  calling  a  man  !  When  it  came  to  the 
point,  I  should  not  think  twice  about  it  !  And  there 
is  he,  sitting  up  there  in  his  glory,  and  looking  down 
unmoved  upon  her  wretchedness  !  I  will  wo/believe 
in  any  such  God  !  " 

Of  course  he  was  more  than  right  in  refusing  to 
believe  in  such  a  God  !  Were  such  a  being  possi- 
ble, he  would  not  be  God.  If  there  were  such  a 
being  and  all  powerful,  he  would  be  /he  one  nof  to  be 
worshipped.  But  was  Richard,  therefore,  to  believe 
in  no  God  altogether  different  ?  May  a  God  only  be 
such  as  is  not  to  be  believed  in  ?  Is  it  not  rather 
that,  to  be  God,  the  being  must  be  so  good  that  a 
man  is  hardly  to  be  found  able — must  I  say  also,  or 
willing — to  believe  in  him  ?  Perhaps,  if  he  had  been  as 
anxious  to  do  his  duty  all  over,  out  and  out,  as  he  was 
where  his  feelings  pointed  to  it,  Richard  might  have 
had  a  "  What  if"  or  two  to  propose  to  himself.  Might 
he  not  for  instance  have  said,  "What  if  a  certain 
being  should  even  now  be  putting  in  my  way  the 
honor  and  gladness  of  helping  this  woman — making 
me  his  messenger  to  her  ? "  What  if  his  soul  was  too 
impatient  to  listen  for  the  next  tick  of  the  clock  of 
eternity,  and  was  left  therefore  to  declare  there  was 
no  such  clock  going  !     Ought  he  not  even  now  to 


257 


have  been  capable  of  thinking  that  there  might  be  a 
being  with  a  design  for  his  creatures  yet  better  than 
merely  to  make  them  happy?  What  if,  that  gained, 
the  other  must  follow  !  Here  was  a  man  judging  the 
eternal,  who  did  not  even  know  his  own  name  ! 

As  he  drew  near  the  house,  the  question  arose  in 
his  mind  :  if  Miss  Wylder  was  gone  to  her  room, 
what  was  he  to  do  to  find  her  ?  He  did  not  know 
where  her  room  was  !  He  knew  that,  when  she 
went  up  the  stair,  at  the  top  of  it  she  turned  to  the 
right — and  he  knew  no  more. 

The  side-gate  at  the  lodge  was  yet  open  ;  so  was 
the  great  door  of  the  house.  He  entered  softly,  and 
going  along  a  wide  passage,  arrived  at  the  foot  of 
the  great  staircase,  which  ascended  with  the  wide 
sweep  of  half  an  oval,  just  in  time  to  see  at  the  top 
the  reflection  of  a  candle  disappearing  to  the  right. 
There  were  many  chances  against  its  being  Barbara's, 
but  with  an  almost  despairing  recklessness  he  darted 
up,  and  turning,  saw  again  the  reflection  of  the  candle 
from  the  wall  of  a  passage  that  crossed  the  corridor. 
He  followed  as  swiftly  and  lightly  as  he  could,  and 
at  the  corner  all  but  overturned  an  elderly  maid, 
whose  fright  gave  place  to  wrath  when  she  saw  who 
had  endangered  her. 

"  I  want  to  see  Miss  Wylder !  "  said  Richard 
hurriedly. 

"You  have  no  call  to  be  in  this  part  of  the  house," 
returned  the  woman. 

"  I  can't  stop  to  explain,"  answered  Richard. 
"  Please  tell  me  which  is  her  room." 

"  Indeed  I  will  not." 

"When  she  knows  my  business,  she  will  be  glad 
I  came  to  her." 


258  THERE    AND    BACK. 

"You  may  find  it  for  yourself." 

"  Will  you  take  a  message  for  me  then  ?  " 

"I  am  not  Miss  Wylder's  maid!"  she  replied. 
"  Neither  is  it  my  place  to  wait  on  my  fellow-ser- 
vants." 

She  turned  away,  tossing-  her  head,  and  rounded 
the  corner  into  the  corridor. 

Richard  looked  down  the  passage.  A  light  was 
burning  at  the  other  end  of  it,  and  he  saw  there  were 
not  many  doors  in  it.  With  a  sudden  resolve  to  go 
straight  ahead,  he  called  out  clear  and  plain  : — 

"  Miss  Wylder  !  "  and  again,  "Miss  Wylder  !  " 

A  door  opened  and,  to  his  delight,  out  peeped 
Barbara's  dainty  little  head.  She  saw  Richard,  gave 
one  glance  in  the  opposite  direction,  and  made  him 
a  sign  to  come  to  her.  He  did  so.  She  was  in  her 
dressing-gown  :  it  was  not  her  candle  he  had  fol- 
lowed, but  its  light  had  led  him  to  her  1 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  she  said  hurriedly.  "  Don't  speak 
loud  :   Lady  Ann  might  hear  you  1  " 

"There's  a  girl  all  but  dying "'  began  Richard. 

"Go  to  the  library,"  she  said.  "  I  will  come  to 
you  there.      I  sha'n't  be  a  minute  !  " 

She  went  in,  and  her  door  closed  with  scarce  a 
sound.  Then  first  a  kind  of  scare  fell  upon  Richard  : 
one  of  those  doors  might  open,  and  the  pale,  cold 
face  of  the  formidable  lady  look  out  Gorgoi>like !  If 
it  was  her  candle  he  had  followed,  she  could  hardly 
have  put  it  down  when  he  called  Miss  Wylder !  He 
ran  gliding  through  passage  and  corridor,  and  down 
the  stair,  noiseless  and  swift  as  a  bat.  Arrived  in 
the  library,  he  lighted  a  candle,  and,  lest  any  one 
should  enter,  pretended  to  be  looking  out  books. 
Within  five  minutes  Barbara  was  at  his  side. 


A    SISTER.  259 

"  Now  !  "  she  said,  and  stood  silent,  waiting. 
Tliere  was  a  solemn  look  on  her  face,  and  none 
of  the  smile  with  which  she  usually  greeted  him. 
Their  last  interview  had  made  her  miserable  for  a 
while,  and  more  solemn  forever.  For  hours  the 
world  was  black  about  her,  and  she  felt  as  if  Richard 
had  struck  her.  To  say  there  was  no  God  behind 
the  loveliness  of  things,  was  to  say  there  was  no 
loveliness— nothing  but  a  pretence  of  loveliness  ! 
The  world  was  a  painted  thing  !  a  toy  for  a  doll  !  a 
phantasrfi  ! 

He  told  her  where  and  in  what  state  he  had  found 
the  girl,  and  to  what  a  poor  place  he  had  been  com- 
pelled to  carry  her,  saying  he  feared  she  would  die 
before  he  could  get  anything  for  her,  except  Miss 
Wylder  would  help  him. 

"  Brandy  !  "  she  said,  thinking.  "  Lady  Ann  has 
some  in  her  room.  The  rest  I  can  manage  !— Wait 
here  ;  I  will  be  with  you  in  three  minutes." 

She  went,  and  Richard  waited— without  anxiety, 
for  whatever  Barbara  undertook  seemed  to  those 
who  knew  her  as  good  as  done. 

She  reappeared  in  her  red  cloak,  with  a  basket 
beneath  it.  Richard,  wondering,  would  have  taken 
the  basket  from  her. 

"Wait  till  we  are  out  of  the  house,"  she  said. 
"  Open  that  bay  window,  and  mind  you  don't  make 
a  noise.  They  mustn't  find  it  undone  :  we  have  to 
get  in  that  way  again." 

Richard  obeyed  scrupulously.  It  was  a  French 
window,  and  issue  was  easy. 

"What  if  they  close  the  shutters.?"  he  ventured 
to  say. 


26o  THERE    AND    BACK. 

"They  don't  always.  We  must  take  our  chance," 
she  replied. 

He  thought  she  must  mean  to  go  as  far  as  the 
lodge  only. 

"  You  won't  forget,  miss,  to  fasten  the  window 
again  ?  "  he  whispered,  as  he  closed  it  softly  behind 
them. 

"We  must  always  risk  something  !  "  she  answered. 
"  Come  along  !  " 

"  Please  give  me  the  basket,"  said  Richard. 

She  gave  it  him  ;  and  the  next  moment  he  found 
her  leading  to  the  way  through  the  park  toward  the 
lodgeless  gate. 

They  had  walked  a  good  many  minutes,  and  Bar- 
bara had  not  said  a  word. 

"  How  good  of  you,  miss,  to  come  !  "  ventured 
Richard. 

"To  come  !  "  she  returned.  "  What  else  did  you 
expect.?     Did  you  not  want  me  to  come  ?  " 

"  I  never  thought  of  your  coming  !  I  only 
thought  you  would  get  the  right  things  for  me — if 
you  could  !  " 

"You  don't  think  I  would  leave  the  poor  girl  to 
the  mercy  of  a  man  who  would  tell  her  there  was 
nobody  anywhere  to  help  her  out  of  her  troubles  !  " 

"I  don't  think  I  should  have  told  her  that;  I 
might  have  told  her  there  was  nobody  to  bring  worse 
trouble  upon  her  !  " 

"What  comfort  would  that  be,  when  the  trouble 
was  come — and  as  strong  as  she  could  bear  !  " 

Richard  was  silent  a  moment,  then  in  pure  self- 
defence  answered  : — 

"A  man  must  neither  take  nor  give  the  comfort  of 
a  lie  !  " 


26l 


"Tell  me  honestly,  then,"  said  Barbara,  " — fori 
do  believe  you  are  an  honest  man — tell  me,  are  you 
sure  there  is  no  God  ?  Have  you  gone  all  through 
the  universe  looking  for  him,  and  failed  to  find  him  ? 
Is  there  no  possible  chance  that  there  may  be  a  God  !  " 

"  I  do  not  believe  there  is." 

"But  are  you  sure  there  is  not?  Do  you  know  it, 
so  that  you  have  a  right  to  say  it  ?  " 

Richard  hesitated. 

"  I  cannot  say,"  he  answered,  "that  I  know  it  as 
I  know  a  proposition  in  Euclid,  or  as  I  know  that  I 
must  not  do  what  is  wrong." 

"  Then  what  right  have  you  to  go  and  make  people 
miserable  by  saying  there  is  no  God — as  if  you,  being 
an  honest  man,  knew  it,  and  would  not  say  it  if  you 
did  not  knoAV  it .?  You  take  away  the  only  comfort 
left  the  unhappy  !  Of  course  you  have  a  right  to  say 
you  don't  believe  it — but  only  that !  and  I  would 
think  twice  before  I  said  even  that,  where  all  the 
certainty  was  that  it  would  make  people  miserable  !  " 

"  I  don't  know  anybody  it  would  make  miserable," 
said  Richard. 

"It  would  make  me  dead  miserable,"  returned 
Barbara. 

"I  know  many  it  \vould  redeem  from  misery," 
rejoined  Richard.  ' '  To  believe  in  a  cruel  being  ready 
to  pounce  upon  them  is  enough  to  make  the  strongest 
miserable." 

' '  The  cruel  being  that  made  the  world,  you  mean  ? " 

"Yes — if  the  world  was  made." 

"If  one  believes  in  any  God,  it  must  be  the  same 
God  that  made  this  lovely  night — and  the  gladness  it 
would  give  me,  if  you  did  not  take  it  from  me  !  " 

Richard  was  silent  for  a  moment. 


262  THERE    AND    BACK. 


"  How  can  I  take  it  from  you  ?  "  he  said,  "  if  you 
think  what  I  say  is  not  true  ?  " 

' '  You  make  me  fear  lest  it  should  be  true  ;  and  then 
farewell  to  all  joy  in  life — not  only  for  want  of  some 
one  to  love  right  heartily,  but  because  there  is  no 
refuge  from  the  evils  that  are  all  about  us.  I  have  no 
quarrel  with  you  if  you  say  these  evils  are  brought 
upon  us  by  an  evil  being,  who  lives  to  make  men 
miserable  ;  there  you  leave  room  to  believe  also  in 
one  fighting  against  him,  to  whom  we  can  go  for 
help !  The  God  our  parson  believes  in  he  calls 
'  God,  our  saviour.'  To  take  away  the  notion  of  any 
kind  of  God,  is  to  make  life  too  dreary  to  live  ! " 

"Yours  is  the  old  doctrine  of  the  Magians," 
remarked  Richard. 

"Well.?" 

' '  I  could  accept  it  easily  beside  what  people  believe 
now." 

' '  What  do  they  believe  ?  " 

"They  believe  in  the  God  of  the  Bible,  who  makes 
pets  of  a  few  of  his  creatures,  and  sends  all  the  rest 
into  eternal  torment.  Would  you  comfort  people 
with  the  good  news  of  a  God  like  that  ?  " 

"Such  a  God  is  not  to  be  believed  in  !  Deny  him 
all  you  can.  But  because  there  cannot  be  an  evil 
God,  what  right  have  you  to  say  there  cannot  be  a 
good  one.?  That  is  to  reason  backward  !  The  very 
notion  of  a  night  like  this  having  no  meaning  in  it — 
no  God  in  it  who  intends  it  to  look  just  so,  is  enough 
to  make  me  miserable.  But  I  will  not  believe  it !  I 
shall  hate  you  if  you  make  me  believe  it !  " 

' '  The  Bible  says  there  is  an  evil  being  behind  it  !  " 

"  I  don't  know  much  about  the  Bible,  but  I  don't 
believe  it  says  that." 


A    SISTER.  263 

"Of  course  it  calls  him  good,  but  it  says  he  does 
certain  thing-s  which  we  know  to  be  bad.  ' 

"You  malce  too  much  of  the  Bible,  if  it  says  such 
things.  Throw  it  out  of  the  window  and  have  done 
with  it.  But  how  dare  you  tell  me  there  is  nobody 
greater  than  me  to  account  for  me  !  You  make  of  me 
a  creature  that  was  not  worth  being  made  ;  a  mere 
ooze  from  nothing,  like  the  scum  on  the  pond  there, 
because  it  cannot  help  it.  If  I  have  no  God  to  be  my 
justification,  my  being  becomes  loathsome  to  me.  1 
don't  know  howl  came  to  be,  where  I  came  from,  or 
where  I  am  going  to  ;  and  you  say  there  can  be 
nobody  that  knows  ;  you  tell  me  there  is  no  help  ; 
that  I  must  die  in  the  dark  I  came  out  of;  that  there 
is  no  love  about  me  knowing  what  it  loves.  Even  if 
I  found  myself  alive  and  awake  and  happy  after  I 
was  dead,  what  comfort  would  there  be  if  there  was 
no  God.?  How  should  I  ever  grow  better.? — how  get 
rid  of  the  wrong  things  in  myself.? — If  Hfe  has  no 
better  thing  for  this  poor  woman,  be  kind  and  let  her 
die  and  have  done  with  it.  Why  keep  her  in  such  a 
hopeless  existence  as  you  believe  in  .?  You  can  have 
but  little  regard  for  her  surely  !  I  beg  of  you  don't 
say  that  thitig  to  her,  for  you  don't  know  it." 

Richard  was  again  silent  for  a  while  ;  then  he  said — 

"  1  had  no  intention  of  saying  anything  of  the  sort, 
but  I  promise  because  you  wish  it." 

"Thank  you  !   thank  you  !  " 

"I  promise  too,"  added  Richard,  "that  I  will  not 
say  anything  more  of  that  kind  until  I  have  thought 
a  good  deal  more  about  it." 

"Thank  you  again  heartily!"  said  Barbara.  "I 
am  sure  of  one  thing— that  you  cannot  have  ground 
for  not  hoping  !     Is  not  hope  all  we  have  got  ?     He 


264  THERE    AND    BACK. 


is  the  very  butcher  of  humanity  who  kills  its  hope  ! 
It  is  hope  we  live  by !  " 

"  But  if  it  be  a  false  hope  ?  " 

'•  A  false  hope  cannot  do  so  much  harm  as  a  false 
fear  !  " 

"  The  false  fear  is  just  what  I  oppose.  The  Bible 
tells  people " 

"There  you  are  back  to  the  book  you  don't  believe 
in  !  And  because  you  don't  believe  in  the  book  that 
makes  people  afraid,  you  insist  there  can  be  no  such 
thing  as  the  gladness  my  heart  cries  out  for  !  If  you 
want  to  make  people  happy,  why  don't  you  preach  a 
good  God  instead  of  no  God  ?  " 

"  I  will  think  about  what  you  say,"  replied  Richard. 

"Mind,"  said  Barbara,  "I  don't  pretend  to  know 
anything  !  I  only  say  I  have  a  right  to  hope.  And 
for  the  Bible,  I  must  have  a  better  look  at  it !  A  man 
who,  being,  a  good  man,  wants  to  comfort  us  poor 
women,  whom  men  knock  about  so,  by  taking  from 
us  the  idea  of  a  living  God  that  cares  for  us,  cannot  be 
so  wise  but  that  he  may  be  wrong  about  a  book  ! 
Have  you  read  it  all  through  now,  Mr.  Tuke — so  that 
you  are  sure  it  says  what  you  say  it  says  ?  " 

' '  I  have  not, "  answered  Richard  ;  "but  everybody 
knows  what  it  says  !  " 

"  Well,  I  don't !  Nobody  has  taken  the  trouble  to 
tell  me,  and  I  haven't  read  it. — But  I'll  just  give  you 
a  little  bit  of  my  life  to  look  at.  I  was  with  my 
father  and  mother  for  a  while  in  Sydney,  and  there 
a  terrible  lie  was  told  about  me,  and  everybody 
believed  it,  and  nobody  would  speak  to  me.  Some- 
how people  are  always  ready  to  believe  lies — even 
people  who  would  not  tell  lies  !  We  had  to  leave 
Sydney  in  consequence,   and  to  this  day  everybody 


26s 


in  Sydney  believes  me  a  wicked,  ugly  girl  ! — Now  I 
know  I  am  not  I  See — I  can  hold  my  face  to  the 
stars  !  It  was  trying  to  help  a  poor  creature  that 
nobody  would  do  anything  for  that  got  the  lie  said 
of  me.  I  thought  my  first  business  was  to  take  care 
of  my  neighbor,  and  I  did  it,  and  that's  what  came 
ofit!" 

"And  you  believe  in  a  God  that  would  let  that 
come  to  you  for  doing  what  was  good  ?  "  said  Richard, 
with  an  indignation  that  exploded  in  all  directions. 

"Stop  !  stop  !  the  thing's  not  over  yet  !  The  world 
is  not  done  with  yet !  What  if  there  be  a  God  who 
loves  me,  and  cares  as  little  what  people  say  about 
me,  because  he  knows  the  truth,  as  I  care  about  it 
because /know  the  truth! — But  that  is  not  what  I 
wanted  to  say ;  this  is  it :  if  such  lies  were  told,  and 
believed,  about  an  innocent  girl  trying  to  do  her  duty, 
why  may  not  people  have  told  lies  about  God,  and 
other  people  believed  them  ?  The  same  thing  may 
hold  with  the  book.  Perhaps  it  does  not  speak  such 
lies  about  God,  but  stupid  or  lying  people  have  said 
that  it  speaks  them,  and  other  people  have  believed 
those,  and  said  it  again.  I  hope  with  all  my  heart 
you  are  saying  what  is  false  when  you  say  there  is  no 
God ;  but  that  is  not  nearly  so  bad  as  saying  there  is 
a  God  who  is  not  good.  I  can't  think  anybody 
believing  in  a  God  like  that,  would  have  been  able 
to  write  a  book  about  him  that  so  many  good  people 
care  to  read." 

Richard  was  thoroughly  silenced  now.  I  do  not 
mean  that  he  was  at  all  convinced,  but  how  could 
he  find  much  to  say  with  that  appeal  of  Barbara  to 
her  own  sore  experience  echoing  in  his  heart  !  And 
they    were    just   at    the    door  of  the   cottage.      He 


j66  there  and  back. 


knocked,  and  receiving-  no  answer,  opened  the  door, 
and  they  went  in. 

There  was  light  enough  from  the  glow  of  a  mere 
remnant  of  fire  in  a  corner,  to  sec,  on  a  stool  by  its 
side,  the  good  woman  of  the  house  fast  asleep,  with 
her  head  against  the  wall.  Her  husband  was 
snoring-  in  bed.  The  children  lay  still  as  death  on 
their  mattress  upon  the  floor.  Alice  sat  on  the  one 
chair,  her  head  fallen  back,  and  her  face  as  white  as 
human  face  could  be ;  but  when  they  listened, 
they  could  hear  her  breathing.  Beside  the  pale, 
worn,  vanishing  girl,  Earbara  looked  the  incarnation 
of  concentrated  life  and  energy.  Her  cheeks  were 
flushed  with  the  rapid  walk,  and  her  eyes  were  still 
flashing  with  the  thoughts  that  had  been  rising 
in  her,  and  the  words  that  had  been  going  from 
her.  For  a  moment  she  stood  radiant  with  the  tender 
glow  of  an  infinite  pity,  as  she  looked  down  on  the 
death-like  girl ;  then,  with  a  sigh  in  which  trembled 
the  very  luxury  of  service,  she  put  her  arm  under 
the  poor  back-fallen  head,  and  lifted  it  gently  up. 
With  the  motion,  Alice's  eyes  opened,  like  those  of 
certain  wonderful  dolls,  but  they  did  not  seem  to 
have  so  much  life  in  them. 

"Quick  !  "  said  Barbara;  "give  me  a  little  brandy 
in  the  cup." 

Richard  made  haste,  and  Barbara  put  the  cup  to 
Alice's  lips. 

"Dear,  take  a  little -brandy  ;  it  will  revive  you," 
she  said. 

Alice  came  to  her  windows  and  looked,  and  saw 
the  face  of  an  angel  bending  over  her.  She  obeyed 
the  heavenly  vision,  and  drank  what  it  offered.  It 
made  her  cough,  and  their  hostess  started  to  her  feet 


267 


as  if  dreading- censure  ;  but  a  smile  and  a  greeting 
from  Barbara  reassured  her.  She  thanked  her  for  her 
hospitality  as  if  Alice  had  been  her  sister,  and  slip- 
ping money  into  her  hand,  coaxingly  begged  her  to 
make  up  the  fire  a  little,  that  she  might  warm  some 
soup. 

Almost  at  once  upon  her  tasting  the  soup,  a  little 
color  began  to  come  in  Alice's  cheek.  Barbara  was 
feeding  her,  and  a  feeble  smile  flickered  over  the  thin 
face  every  time  it  looked  up  in  Barbara's.  Richard 
stood  gazing,  and  saw  that  hope  in  God  could  not 
much  have  lessened  one  woman's  tenderness.  He 
had  scarcely  seen  tenderness  in  his  mother  ;  and  cer- 
tainly he  had  seen  little  hope.  She  was  thoroughly 
kind  to  him,  and  he  knew  she  would  have  died  for 
her  husband  ;  but  he  had  seen  no  sweetness  in  their 
intercourse,  neither  could  remember  any  sweetness 
to  himself.  The  hot  spring  of  his  aunt's  love  to  him 
was  no  geyser,  and  he  never  knew  in  this  world  how 
hot  it  was.  Hence  was  it  to  Richard  more  than  a 
gracious  sight,  it  was  a  revelation  to  him,  as  he 
watched  the  electric  play  of  the  love  that  passed  from 
the  strong,  tender,  child-likegirl  to  the  delicate,  weary, 
starved  creature  to  whom  she  was  ministering. 

At  length  Barbara  thought  it  better  she  should  have 
no  more  food  for  the  present,  when  naturally  the  ques- 
tion arose,  what  was  to  be  done  next.  The  saviours 
went  out  into  the  night  to  have  a  free  talk,  and  a 
little  fresh  air — sorely  wanted  in  the  cottage. 

Richard  then  told  Barbara  that,  if  she  did  not  dis- 
approve, he  would  take  Alice  to  his  grandfather;  he 
was  certain  he  would  receive  her  cordially,  and  both 
he  and  Jessie  would  do  what  they  could  for  her.  But 
he  did  not  know  of  any  vehicle  he  could  get  to  carry 


268  THERE    AND    BACK. 


her,  except  his  grandfather's  pony-cart,  and  that  was 
four  miles  away  ! 

"All  right !  "  said  Barbara  -'I  will  stay  with  her, 
in  and  out,  till  you  come." 

"  But  how  will  you  get  home  after.?  " 

"As  I  came,  of  course.  Don't  trouble  yourself 
about  me  ;  I  can  look  after  myself." 

"But  if  the"  should  have  fastened  the  library 
window  ?  " 

"Then  I  will  do  the  next  simplest  thing.  I  will 
pull  the  bell  and  go  in  through  the  door." 

"And  then  they  will  know  of  your  coming  out," 
said  Richard,  greatly  disturbed  at  the  thought  of  the 
possible  unpleasantness  his  hasty  action  had  brought. 

"That  is  my  affair,"  Barbara  replied,  "and  gives 
me  no  concern.  Yours  is  to  be  off  to  your  grand- 
father's as  speedily  as  you  can.  Don't  you  think 
about  me.  I  shall  come  to  no  harm.  Go  at  once 
and  fetch  the  pony-cart." 

Richard  set  off  running,  and  came  to  his  grand- 
father's while  it  was  yet  unreviving  night  ;  but  he 
had  little  difficulty  in  rousing  the  old  man.  He  told 
him  all  he  knew  about  Alice,  as  well  as  the  plight  in 
which  he  had  found  her.  Simon  looked  grave  when 
he  heard  how  his  daughter  had  come  between  Richard 
and  his  friends.  He  hurried  on  his  clothes,  put  the 
pony  to,  and  go  into  the  cart  :  he  would  himself 
fetch  the  girl  !  In  another  moment  they  were  spin- 
ning along  the  gray  road. 

When  they  reached  the  hut,  there  was  Barbara 
standing  sentry  near  the  door.  She  went  and  talked 
to  Simon.  Richard  got  down  and  went  in.  He 
found  Alice  wide  awake,  staring  into  the  fire,  with  a 
look  that  brought  a  great  rush  of  pity  into  his  heart 


269 


afresh.  Remembering  how  the  girl  had  shrunk  from 
him  before,  he  feared  himself  unfit  to  help,  and  knew 
himself  unable  to  comfort  her.  For  the  first  time  he 
vaguely  felt  that  there  might  be  troubles  needing  a 
hand  which  neither  man  nor  woman  could  hold  out. 
Their  kind  hostess  had  crept  into  bed  beside  her 
husband,  and  was  snoring  as  loud  as  he.  Without  a 
word  he  wrapped  Alice  in  the  blanket  he  had  brought, 
and  taking  her  once  more  in  his  arms,  carried  her  to 
the  cart.  Leaning  down  from  his  perch,  the  sturdy- 
old  man  received  her  in  his,  placed  her  comfortably 
beside  him,  put  his  arm  round  her,  and  with  a  nod 
to  Barbara,  and  never  a  word  to  his  grandson,  drove 
away.  Richard  knew  his  rugged  goodness  too  well 
to  mind  how  he  treated  him,  and  was  confident  in 
him  for  Alice,  as  one  to  do  not  less  but  more  than  he 
promised.  He  was  thus  free  to  walk  home  with 
Barbara,  glad  at  heart  to  know  Alice  in  harbor,  but  a 
little  anxious  until  Miss  Wylder  should  be  safe  shut 
in  her  chamber. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

BARBARA    AND    LADY    ANN, 

As  they  went,  neither  said  much.  Both  seemed  to 
avoid  the  subject  of  their  conversation  as  they  came. 
They  talked  of  poetry  and  fiction,  and  did  not  differ. 
Though  Barbara  there  also  had  precious  insights, 
happily  she  had  no  opinions. 

When  they  reached  a  certain  point,  Richard  drew 
back,  and,  from  a  coign  of  vantage,  saw  Barbara  try 
the  study-window  and  fail.  He  then  followed  her  as 
she  went  round  to  the  door,  and,  still  covertly,  saw 
her  ring  the  bell.  The  door  was  opened  with  what 
seemed  to  him  a  portentous  celerity,  and  she  disap- 
peared. He  turned  away  into  the  park,  and  wan- 
dered about,  revolving  many  things,  till  by  slow 
gradations  the  sky's  gray  idea  unfolded  to  a  brilliant 
conviction,  and,  lo,  there  was  the  morning,  not  to  be 
controverted  !  But  he  took  care  to  let  the  house  not 
only  come  awake,  but  come  to  its  senses,  before  he 
sought  admission.  When  it  seemed  well  astir,  he 
rang  the  bell  ;  and  when  the  door,  after  some  delay, 
was  opened,  he  went  straight  to  the  library,  and  was 
fairly  at  work  by  five  o'clock. 

He  saw  nothing  of  Barbara  all  day,  or  indeed  of 
any  of  the  family  except  Vixen,  who  looked  in,  made 
a  face  at  him,  and  went  away,  leaving  the  door  open. 
At  eight  o'clock  he  had  his  breakfast,  and  at  nine  he 
was  again  in  the  library ;  so  that  by  lunch-time  he 


BARBARA    AND    LADY    ANN.  27 1 

had  been  seven  of  his  eight  hours  at  work,  and  by 
half-past  two  found  himself  free  to  go  to  his  grand- 
father's and  inquire  after  Alice. 

On  his  way  to  the  road  through  the  park,  he  met 
Arthur  Lestrange,  Richard  touched  his  hat  as  was 
his  wont,  and  would  have  passed,  but,  with  no 
friendly  expression  on  his  countenance,  Arthur 
stopped. 

"  Where  are  you  going,  Tuke  ?  "  he  said. 

"I  am  going  to  my  grandfather's,  sir,"  answered 
Richard. 

"Excuse  me,  but  your  day's  work  is  not  over  by 
many  hours  yet." 

Richard  found  his  temper  growing  troublesome, 
but  tried  hard  to  keep  it  in  hand. 

"  If  you  remember,  sir,"  he  said,  "our  agreement 
mentioned  no  hour  for  beginning  or  leaving  off 
work." 

"That  is  true,  but  you  undertook  to  give  me  eight 
hours  of  your  day  !  " 

"Yes,  sir.  I  was  at  work  by  five  o'clock  this 
morning,  and  have  given  you  more  than  eight  hours." 

"  Hm  !  "  said  Arthur. 

"I  am  quite  as  anxious,"  pursued  Richard,  "to 
fulfil  my  engagement,  as  you  can  be  to  have  it 
fulfilled." 

Arthur  said  nothing. 

"Ask  Thomas,  who  let  me  in  this  morning,"  re- 
sumed Richard,  "  whether  I  was  not  at  work  in  the 
library  by  five  o'clock." 

It  went  a  good  deal  against  the  grain  with  Richard 
to  appeal  to  any  witness  for  corroboration  :  he  was 
proud  of  being  a  man  of  his  word  ;  but  although  not 
greatly  anxious  to  keep  his  temporary  position,  he 


272  THERE    AND    BACK. 


was  anxious  the  compact  should  not  be  broken 
through  anything  he  did  or  said. 

"  Let  you  in  ?"  exclaimed  Arthur;  " — let  you  in 
before  five  o'clock  in  the  morning  ?  Then  you  were 
out  all  night !  " 

"  I  was." 

"That  cannot  be  permitted." 

"I  am  surely  right  in  believing  that,  when  my 
work  is  over,  I  am  my  own  master!  I  had  some- 
thing to  do  that  must  be  done.  My  grandfather 
knows  all  I  was  about !  " 

"Oh,  yes,  I  remember!  old  Simon  Armour,  the 
blacksmith  !  "  returned  Arthur.  "But,"  he  went  on, 
plainly  softening  a  little,  "you  ought  not  to  work 
for  him  while  you  are  in  my  employment." 

"I  know  that,  sir;  and  if  I  wanted,  my  grand- 
father would  not  let  me.  While  my  work  is  yours, 
it  is  all  yours,  sir." 

With  that  he  turned,  and  left  Arthur  where  he 
stood  a  little  relieved,  though  now  annoyed  as  well 
that  a  man  in  his  employment  should  not  have 
waited  to  be  dismissed.  Hastening  to  the  smithy, 
he  found  his  grandfather  putting  off  his  apron  to  go 
home  for  a  cup  of  tea. 

"Oh,  there  you  are  ! "  he  said.  "I  thought  we 
should  be  catching  sight  of  you  before  long  !  " 

"  How's  Alice,  grandfather?  You  might  be  sure 
I  should  want  to  know  !  " 

"She's  been  asleep  all  day,  the  best  thing  for 
her !  " 

"  I  hope,  grandfather,"  said  Richard,  for  Simon's 
tone  troubled  him  a  Httle,  "you  are  not  vexed  with 
me  !  I  assure  you  I  had  nothing  to  do  with  her 
coming   down  here — that  I   know  of.     You   would 


BARBARA    AND    LADY    ANN. 


2/3 


not  have  had  me  leave  her  sitting-  there,  out  on  that 
stone  in  the  moonUght,  all  night  long,  a  ghost  before 
Jier  time  w^ithout  a  grave  to  go  to  ?  She  would  have 
been  dead  before  the  morning !  She  must  have 
been  !  I  am  certain  you  would  not  have  left  her 
there ! " 

"God  forbid,  lad!  If  you  thought  me  out  of 
temper  with  you,  it  was  a  mistake.  I  confess  the 
thing  does  bother  me,  but  I'm  not  blamingj/ow.  You 
acted  like  a  Christian." 

Richard  hardly  relished  the  mode  of  his  grand- 
father's approbation,  A  man  ought  to  do  the  right 
thing  because  he  was  a  man,  not  because  he 
was  something  else  than  a  man  !  He  had  yet 
to  leam  that  a  man  and  a  Christian  are  pre- 
cisely and  entirely  the  same  thing ;  that  a  being 
who  is  not  a  Christian  is  not  a  man.  I  perfectly 
know  how  absurd  this  must  seem  to  many,  but  such 
do  not  see  what  I  see.  No  one,  however  strong  he 
may  feel  his  obligations,  will  ever  be  man  enough 
to  fulfil  them  except  he  be  a  Christian — that  is,  one 
w^ho,  like  Christ,  cares  first  for  the  will  of  the  Father. 
One  who  thinks  he  can  meet  his  obligations  now, 
can  have  no  idea  what  is  required  of  him  in  virtue 
of  his  being  what  he  is — no  idea  of  what  his  own 
nature  requires  of  him.  So  much  is  required  that 
nothing  more  could  be  required.  Let  him  ask  him- 
self whether  he  is  doing  what  he  requires  of  himself. 
If  he  answer,  "I  can  do  it  without  Christianity  any- 
way," I  reply,  "Do  it;  try  to  do  it,  and  I  know 
where  the  honest  endeavor  will  bring  you.  Don't 
try  to  do  it,  and  you  are  not  man  enough  to  be  worth 
reasoning  with." 

Simon  and  his  grandson  had  not  yet  turned  the 


18 


2  74  THERE    AND    BACK. 


corner,  when  Richard  heard  a  snort  he  knew  :  there, 
sure  enoug-h,  stood  Miss  Brown,  hitched  to  the 
garden-paling,  peaceable  but  impatient. 

"  Miss  Wylder  here  !  "  said  Richard. 

"Yes,  lad!  She's  been  here  an  hour  and  more. 
Jessie  came  and  told  me,  but  1  knew  it :  I  heard  the 
mare,  and  knew  the  sound  of  my  own  shoes  on 
her  ! — I  doubt  if  she'll  stand  it  much  longer  though  !  " 
he  added,  as  she  pawed  the  road.  "Well,  she's  a 
fine  creature  !  " 

"Yes,  she's  a  good  mare  !  " 

"I  don't  mean   the  mare  !     I  mean  the  mistress  !  " 

"Miss  Wylder  is  just  noble  !  "  said  Richard.  "  But 
I'm  afraid  she  got  into  trouble  last  night !  " 

"It  don't  sound  much  like  it  !"  returned  the  old 
man,  as  Barbara's  musical,  bird-like  laugh  came 
from  the  cottage.  "  She  ain't  breaking  her  heart  ! — 
Alice,  as  you  call  her,  must  be  doing  well,  or  missie 
wouldn't  be  laughing  like  that !  " 

As  they  entered,  Barbara  came  gliding  down  the 
perpendicular  stair  in  front  of  them,  her  face  yet 
radiant  with  the  shadow  of  the  laugh  they  had 
heard. 

"Good-morning,  Mr.  Armour!"  she  said.  " — I 
did  not  expect  to  see  you  so  soon  again,  INIr.  Tuke. 
Will  you  put  me  up.?" 

Richard  released  Miss  Brown,  got  her  into  position, 
and  gave  his  hand  to  Barbara's  foot,  as  he  had  seen 
Mr.  Lestrangc  do.  But  lifting,  he  nearly  threw  her 
over  Miss  Brown's  back.  She  burst  into  her  lovely 
laugh,  clutched  at  a  pommel,  and  held  fast. 

"  I'm  not  quite  ready  to  go  to  heaven  all  at  once  !  " 
she  said. 

"I  thought  you  were  !  "  answered  Richard.     "But 


BARBARA    AND    LADY    ANN.  275 

indeed  I  beg  your  pardon  !  I  might  have  known 
how  light  you  must  be  !  " 

"I  am  very  heavy  for  my  size  !  " 

"May  I  walk  a  little  way  alongside  of  you, 
miss  ? " 

"You  have  a  right ;  I  have  offered  you  my  com- 
pany more  than  once,"  answered  Barbara. 

They  walked  a  little  way  in  silence.  Then  the 
very  accident  of  association  impelled  their  thoughts 
into  the  old  channel,  and  Richard  broke  out  almost 
impetuously. 

"Why  is  there  no  way  to  the  heaven  yoi:  believe 
in,  but  the  terrible  gate  of  death  ? "'  he  demanded, 
"  If  a  God  of  love,  as  you  say  your  God  is,  made 
the  world,  and  could  not — for  want  of  room,  I 
suppose — let  his  creatures  live  on  in  it,  he  would 
surely  have  thought  of  some  better  way  out  of  it 
than  such  a  ghastly  one  !  " 

Perhaps  the  most  surprising  thing  about  Barbara 
was  her  readiness.  Very  seldom  had  one  to  wait 
for  her  answer. 

"This  morning,"  she  said,  "for  the  first  time  with 
me  on  her  back  at  least.  Miss  Brown  refused  a 
jump — and  I  grant  the  place  looked  ugly  !  But  T 
gave  her  a  little  sharp  persuasion,  and  she  took  it 
beautifully,  coming  away  as  proud  of  herself  as 
possible. — If  there  be  a  God,  he  must  know  as  much 
better  than  you  and  I,  as  I  know  better  than  Miss 
Brown.  One  who  never  did  anything  we  couldn't 
understand,  couldn't  be  God.  How  else  could  he 
make  things  ?  " 

"Yes,  if  they  are  made  !  " 

"  If  I  were  you,  I  would  be  quite  sure  first,  before 
I  said  they   were  not.     You  won't  assert  anything 


276  THERE    AND    BACK. 


you   are  not  sure  of;    don't  deny   anything  either. 
Good-bye. — Go  on,  Miss  Brown  !  " 

She  was  more  peremptory  than  usual,  but  he  liked 
it — rather.  He  felt  she  had  some  right  to  speak  to 
him  so  :  positive  as  he  had  hitherto  been,  he  was  not 
really  sure  of  anything  ! 

The  fact  was,  Barbara  had  been  irritated  that 
morning,  and  had  .got  over  the  irritation,  but  not 
quite  over  the  excitement  of  it.  She  thought  Miss 
Brown  should  never  again  set  hoof  within  the  gates 
of  Mortgrange. 

After  breakfast,  Lady  Ann  had  sent  for  her  to  her 
dressing-room,  and  Barbara  had  gone,  prepared  to 
hear  of  something  to  her  disadvantage. 

The  same  woman  who  had  been  so  uncivil  to 
Richard,  had  watched  and  seen  them  go  out  together. 
She  fastened  the  library  vi^indow  behind  them,  and 
went  and  told  Lady  Ann,  who  requested  her  to  mind 
her  own  business. 

When  Barbara  rang  the  bell,  not  caring  much— for 
a  night  in  the  park  was  of  little  consequence  to  her 
— the  door  was  immediately  opened,  but  only  a  little 
w^ay,  by  some  one  without  a  light,  whose  face  or 
even  person  she  could  not  distinguish,  for  the  door 
was  quite  in  shadow.  It  closed  again,  and  she  was 
left  darkling,  to  find  her  way  to  her  room  as  best  she 
might.  She  stood  for  a  moment. 
"  Who  is  it.?  "  she  said. 

No  one  answered.  She  heard  neither  footstep  nor 
sound  of  garments.  Carefully  feeling  her  way,  she 
got  to  the  foot  of  the  great  stair,  and  in  another 
minute  was  in  her  room. 

When  Barbara  entered  Lady  Ann's  dressing-room, 
she  greeted  her  with  less  than  her  usual  frigidity. 


BARBARA    AND    LADY    ANN.  277 

"  Good-morning,  my  love  !  You  were  late  last 
night !  "  she  said. 

"I  thought  I  was  rather  early,"  answered  Barbara, 
laughing. 

"May  I  ask  where  you  were.?"  said  her  ladyship, 
with  her  habitual  composure. 

"About  a  mile  and  a  half  from  here,  at  that  little 
cottage  in  Burrow-lane." 

"  How  did  you  come  to  be  there — and  for  so  long.? 
You  were  hours  away  !  " 

Even  Lady  Ann  could  not  prevent  a  little  surprise 
in  her  tone  as  she  said  the  words. 

"  Mr.  Tuke  came  and  told  me " 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  but  do  I  know  Mr.  Tuke.?" 

"The  bookbinder,  at  work  in  the  library." 

"Wouldn't  your  mother  be  rather  astonished  at 
your  having  secrets  with  a  working-man  ?  " 

"Secrets,  Lady  Ann  !  "  exclaimed  Barbara.  "Your 
ladyship  forgets  herself  !  " 

Lady  Ann  looked  up  with  a  languid  stare  in  the 
fresh  young  face,  rosy  with  anger. 

"Was  I  not  in  the  act,"  pursued  the  girl,  "of  tell- 
ing you  all  about  it  ?  You  dare  accuse  me  of  such  a 
thing  !  I  only  wish  you  would  carry  that  tale  of  me 
to  my  mother  !  " 

"  I  am  not  accustomed  to  be  addressed  in  this  style, 
Barbara  !  "  drawled  Lady  Ann,  without  either  raising 
or  quickening  her  voice. 

"Then  it  is  time  you  began,  if  you  are  accustomed 
to  speak  to  girls  as  you  have  just  spoken  to  me  !  I 
am  not  accustomed  to  be  told  that  I  have  a  secret 
with  any  man — or  woman  either  !  I  don't  know 
which  I  should  like  worse  !  I  have  no  secrets.  I 
hate  them." 


THERE    AND    BACK. 


"Compose  yourself,  my  child.  You  need  not  be 
afraid  of  me!"  said  Lady  Ann.  "I  am  not  your 
enemy." 

She  thought  Barbara's  anger  came  from  fear,  for 
she  regarded  herself  as  a  formidable  person.  But 
for  victory  she  rested  mainly  on  her  imperturb- 
ability. 

"Look  me  in  the  face,  Lady  Ann,  and  tell  your- 
self whether  I  am  afraid  of  you  !  "  answered  Bar- 
bara, the  very  soul  of  indignation  flashing  in  her 
eyes.      "I  fear  no  enemy." 

Lady  Ann  found  she  had  a  new  sort  of  creature  to 
deal  with. 

"That  I  am  your  friend,  you  will  not  doubt  when 
I  tell  you  that  it  was  I  who  let  you  in  last  night !  I 
did  not  wish  your  absence  or  the  hour  of  your  return 
to  be  known.  My  visitors  must  not  be  remarked 
upon  by  my  servants  !  ". 

"  Then  why  did  you  not  speak  to  me.?  " 

"I  wished  to  give  you  a  lesson." 

"You  thought  to  frighten  me,  as  if  I  were  a  doughy, 
half-baked  English  girl !  Allow  me  to  ask  how  you 
were  aware  I  was  out." 

Lady  Ann  was  not  ready  with  her  answer.  She 
wanted  to  establish  a  protective  claim  on  the  girl — 
to  have  a  secret  with,  and  so  a  hold  upon  her. 

"  If  the  servants  do  not  know,"  Barbara  went  on, 
"  would  you  mind  saying  how  your  ladyship  came 
to  know  .?  Have  the  servants  up,  and  I  will  tell  the 
whole  thing  before  them  all — and  prove  what  I  say 
too." 

"Calm  yourself,  Miss  Wylder.  You  will  scarcely 
do  yourself  justice  in  English  society,  if  you  give 
way  to  such  temper.     As  you  wish  the  whole  house 


BARBARA    AND    LADY    ANN.  279 


to  know  what  you  were  about,  pray  begin  with  me, 
and  explain  the  thing  to  me." 

"Mr.  Tuke  told  me  he  had  found  a  young  woman 
almost  dead  with  hunger  and  cold  by  the  wayside, 
and  carried  her  to  a  cottage.  I  came  to  you,  as  you 
well  remember,  and  begged  a  little  brandy.  Then  I 
went  to  the  larder,  and  got  some  soup.  She  would 
certainly  have  been  dead  before  the  morning,  if  we 
had  not  taken  them  to  her." 

"  Why  did  you  not  tell  me  what  you  wanted  the 
brand)''  for  ? " 

"Because  you  would  have  tried  to  prevent  me 
from  going." 

"  Of  course  I  should  have  had  the  poor  creature 
attended  to  !— I  confess  I  should  have  sent  a  more 
suitable  person." 

"I  thought  myself  the  most  suitable  person  in  the 
house." 
"Why?" 

"Because  the  thing  came  to  me  to  get  done,  and 
I  had  to  go ;  and  because  I  knew  I  should  be  kinder 
to  her  than  any  one  you  could  send.  I  know  too 
well  what  servants  are,  to  trust  them  with  the 
poor ! " 

"You  may  be  far  too  kind  to  such  people  !  " 
"Yes,  if  one  hasn't  common  sense.     But  this  girl 
you  couldn't  be  too  kind  to." 

"  It  is  just  as  I  feared  :  she  has  taken  you  in  quite  ! 
Those  tramps  are  all  the  same  !  " 

"The  same  as  other  people — yes;  that  is,  as 
different  from  each  other  as  your  Ladyship  and  I." 

Lady  Ann  found  Barbara  too  much  for  her,  and 
changed  her  attack. 

"  But  how  came  you  to  be  so  long?     As  you  have 


28o  THERE    AND    BACK. 


just  said,  Burrow-lane  can't  be  more  than  a  mile  and 
a  half  from  here  !  " 

"We  could  not  leave  her  at  the  cottage  ;  it  was  not 
a  fit  place  for  her.  Mr.  Tuke  had  to  go  to  his  grand- 
father's— four  miles — and  I  had  to  stay  with  her  till 
he  came  back.  Old  Simon  came  himself  in  his 
spring-cart,  and  took  her  away." 

"Was  there  no  woman  at  the  cottage.'  " 

"Yes,  but  worn  out  with  work  and  children.  Her 
night's  rest  was  of  more  consequence  to  her  than  ten 
nights'  waking  would  be  to  me." 

"Thank  you,  Barbara  !  I  was  certain  I  should  not 
prove  mistaken  in  you  !  But  I  hope  such  a  necessity 
will  not  often  occur." 

"I  hope  not;  but  when  it  does,  I  hope  I  may  be 
at  hand." 

"I  was  certain  it  was  some  mission  of  mercy  that 
had  led  you  into  the  danger.  A  girl  in  your  position 
must  beware  of  being  peculiar,  even  in  goodness. 
There  are  more  important  things  in  the  world  than  a 
little  suffering  !  " 

"Yes;  your  duty  to  your  neighbor  is  more  im- 
portant." 

"  Not  than  your  duty  to  yourself,  Barbara!"  said 
Lady  Ann,  in  such  a  gentle  severe  tone  of  righteous 
reproof,  that  Barbara's  furnace  of  a  heart  made  the 
little  pot  that  held  her  temper  nearly  boil  over. 

"Lady  Ann,"  she  said,  unconsciously  drawing 
herself  up  to  her  full  little  height,  "I  am  sorry  I  gave 
you  the  trouble  of  sitting  up  to  open  the  door  for  me. 
That  at  least  shall  not  happen  again.  Good-morn- 
ing." 

"There  is  nothing  to  be  annoyed  at,  Barbara.     I 


BARBARA    AND    LADY    ANN. 


am  quite  pleased  with  what  you  have  told  me,  I  say 
only  it  was  unwise  of  you  not  to  let  me  know." 

"  It  may  not  have  been  wise  for  my  own  sake,  but 
it  was  for  the  woman's." 

"There  is  no  occasion  to  say  more  about  the 
woman  ;  1  am  quite  satisfied  with  you,  Barbara  !  " 
said  Lady  Ann,  looking  up  with  an  icy  smile,  her 
last  Parthian  arrow. 

"But  I  am  not  satisfied  with  you,  Lady  Ann,"  re- 
joined Barbara.  ~  "I  have  submitted  to  be  catechised 
because  the  thing  took  place  while  I  was  your  guest ; 
but  if  such  a  thing  were  to  happen  again,  I  should  do 
just  the  same  ;  therefore  I  have  no  right,  understand- 
ing perfectly  how  much  it  would  displease  you,  to 
remain  your  guest.  I  ought,  perhaps,  to  have  gone 
home  instead  of  returning  to  you,  but  I  thought  that 
would  be  uncivil,  and  look  as  if  I  were  ashamed. 
My  mother  would  never  have  treated  me  as  you  have 
done  !  You  may  think  her  a  strange  woman,  but 
her  heart  is  as  big  as  her  head — much  bigger  when 
it  is  full  !  " 

It  was  not  right  of  Barbara  to  get  so  angry,  and 
answer  Lady  Ann  so  petulantly,  for  she  knew  her 
pretty  well  by  this  time,  and  yet  was  often  her  guest. 
That  it  was  impossible  for  such  a  girl  to  feel  respect 
for  such  a  woman,  if  it  accounts  for  her  bearing  to 
her,  condemns  the  familiarity  that  gave  occasion  to 
that  bearing.  At  the  same  time,  but  for  Lady  Ann's 
superiority  in  age,  Barbara  would  have  spoken  her 
mind  with  yet  greater  freedom.  Her  rank  made  no 
halo  about  her  in  Barbara's  eyes. 

Lady  Ann  took  no  more  trouble  to  appease  her  : 
the  foolish  girl  would,  she  judged,  be  ashamed  of  her- 
self soon,  and  accept  the  favor  she  knew  to  be  un- 


282  THERE    AND    BACK. 


deserved  !  Lady  Ann  understood  Barbara  no  more 
than  Lady  Ann  understood  the  real  woman  under- 
lying Lady  Ann.  She  was  not  afraid  of  losing-  Bar- 
bara, for  she  believed  her  parents  could  not  but  be 
strongly  in  favor  of  an  alliance  with  her  family.  She 
knew  nothing  of  the  personal  opposition  between  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Wylder ;  she  never  opposed  Sir  Wilton  ex- 
cept it  was  worth  her  while  to  do  so  ;  and  Sir  Wilton 
never  opposed  her  at  all — openly.  It  gave  Lady  Ann 
no  more  pleasure  to  go  against  her  husband,  than  to 
comply  with  his  wishes  ;  and  she  had  anything  but 
an  adequate  notion  of  the  pleasure  it  gave  Sir  Wilton 
to  see  any  desire  of  hers  frustrated. 

Barbara  went  to  the  stable,  where  man  and  boy 
had  always  his  service  in  his  right  hand  ready  for 
her — got  Miss  Brown  saddled,  and  was  away  from 
Mortgrange  before  Richard,  early  as  he  had  begun, 
was  half-way  through  his  morning's  work. 

She  went  to  see  Alice  almost  every  day  from  that 
afternoon  ;  and  as  no  one  could  resist  Barbara,  Alice's 
reserve,  buttressed  and  bastioned  as  it  was  with  pain, 
soon  began  to  yield  before  the  live  sympathy  that 
assailed  it.     They  became  fast  friends. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 


AND     BARBARA. 


It  was  weeks  before  Alice  was  able  to  leave  her 
bed  :  she  had  been  utterly  exhausted. 

On  a  lovely  summer  morning  she  woke  to  a  sense 
of  returninof  health.  She  had  been  lying  like  a  waste 
shore,  at  low  springtide,  covered  with  dry  seaweeds, 
withered  jelly-fishes,  and  a  multitudinous  life  that 
gasped  for  the  ocean  :  at  last,  at  last,  the  cool  washing 
throb  of  the  great  sea  of  bliss,  whose  fountain  is  the 
heart  of  God,  had  stolen  upon  her  consciousness,  and 
she  knew  that  she  lived.  She  lay  in  a  neat  little  cur- 
tained bed,  in  a  room  with  aslopingroof  on  both  sides, 
covered,  not  with  tiles  or  slates,  but  with  warm  thatch, 
thick  and  sound.  Ivy  was  creeping  through  the 
chinks  of  the  ill-fitting  window-frame  ;  but  through 
the  little  dormer  window  itself  the  sun  shone  freely, 
and  made  shadows  of  shivering  ivy-leaves  upon  the 
deal  floor.  It  was  a  very  humble  room,  and  Alice 
had  been  used  to  much  better  furniture — but  neither 
to  room  nor  furniture  so  clean.  There  was  a  whole- 
someness  and  purity  everywhere  about  her  very  wel- 
come to  the  lady-eyes  with  which  Alice  was  born  ; 
for  it  is  God  that  makes  ladies,  not  stupid  society  and 
its  mawkish  distinctions.  One  brief  moment  she  felt 
as  if  she  had  gained  the  haven  of  her  rest,  for  she  lay 
at  peace,  and  nothing  gnawed.  But  suddenly  a 
pang  shot  through  her  heart,  and  she  knew  that  some 


284  THERE    AND    BACK. 


harassing  thought  was  at  hand  :  pain  was  her  por- 
tion, and  had  but  to  define  itself  to  grow  sharp.  She 
rose  on  her  elbow  to  receive  the  enemy.  He  came  ; 
she  fell  back  with  a  fainting  heart  and  a  writhing  will. 
She  had  left  love  and  misery  behind  her  to  seek  help, 
and  she  had  not  found  it !  she  had  but  lost  sight  of 
those  for  whom  she  sought  the  help  !  She  could  not 
tell  how  long  it  was  since  she  had  seen  her  mother 
and  Arthur  :  she  lay  covered  with  kindness  by  people 
she  had  never  before  seen  ;  and  how  they  were  faring, 
she  could  but  conjecture,  and  conjecture  had  in  it  no 
comfort ! 

Alice  had  little  education  beyond  what  life  had 
given  her  ;  but  life  is  the  truest  of  all  teachers,  how- 
ever little  the  results  of  her  teaching  may  be  valued 
by  school-enthusiasts.  She  did  not  put  the  letter  H 
in  its  place  except  occasionally,  but  she  knew  how 
to  send  a  selfish  thought  back  to  its  place.  She  did 
not  know  one  creed  from  another,  but  she  loved  what 
she  saw  to  be  good.  She  knew  nothing  of  the  Nor- 
man conquest,  but  she  knew  much  of  self-conquest. 
She  could  make  her  breakfast  off  dry  bread,  that  her 
mother  might  have  hot  coffee  and  the  best  of  butter. 
She  wore  very  shabby  frocks,  but  she  would  not  put 
bad  work  into  the  seams  of  a  rich  lady's  dress.  She 
stooped  as  she  walked,  and  there  was  a  lack  of  accord 
between  her  big  beautiful  eyes  and  the  way  she  put 
her  feet  down  ;  but  it  was  the  same  thing  that  made 
her  eyes  so  large,  and  her  feet  so  heavy  ;  and  if  she 
could  not  trip  lightly  along  the  street,  she  could  lay 
very  tender  hands  on  her  mother's  head  when  it  ached 
with  drinking.  She  had  suffered  much  at  the  hands 
of  great  ladies,  yet  she  had  but  to  see  Barbara  to  love 
her. 


ALICE    AND    BARBARA.  285 

• 

As  she  lay  with  her  heart  warming-  in  that  sunshine 
in  which  every  heart  must  one  day  flash  hke  the 
truest  of  diamonds,  she  heard  the  sound  of  a  horse's 
hoofs  on  the  road.  Her  angel  came  to  Alice  with 
no  flapping  of  great  wings,  or  lighting  of  soft-poised 
heavenly  feet  on  wooden  floor,  but  with  the  sounds 
of  ringing  iron  shoes  and  snorting  breath,  to  be  fol- 
lowed by  a  girl's  feet  on  the  stair,  whose  herald  was 
the  smell,  now  of  rosiest  roses,  now  of  whitest  lilies, 
in  the  chamber  of  her  sad  sister.  Well  might  Alice 
have  sung,  "How  beautiful  are  the  feet!"  At  the 
music  of  those  mounting  feet,  death  and  fear  slunk 
from  the  room,  and  Alice  knew  there  was  salvation 
in  the  world.  What  evil  ca7i  there  be  for  which  there 
is  no  help  in  another  honest  human  soul  !  What 
sorrow  is  there  from  which  a  man  may  not  be  some 
covert,  some  shadow  !  Alas  for  the  true  soul  which 
cannot  itself  save,  when  it  has  no  notion  where  help 
is  to  be  found  ! 

"Well,  how  are  you  to-day,  little  one.?"  said  Bar- 
bara, sitting  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed. 

Alice  was  older  and  taller  than  Barbara,  but  Barbara 
never  thought  about  height  or  age  :  strong  herself, 
she  took  the  maternal  relation  to  all  weakness. 

"  Ever  so  much  better,  miss  !  "  answered  Alice. 

"  Now,  none  of  that  !  "  returned  the  little  lady,  "or 
I  walk  out  of  the  room  !  My  name  is  Barbara,  and 
we  are  friends — except  you  think  it  cheeky  of  me  to 
call  you  Alice  !  " 

Alice  stretched  out  her  thin  arms,  folded  them 
gently  around  Barbara,  and  burstinto  weeping,  which 
was  not  all  bitter. 

"Will  you  let  me  tell  you  everything.?"  she  cried. 

"What  am  I  here  for.?  "  returned  Barbara,  deep  in 


THERE    AND    BACK. 


her  embrace.  "  Only  don't  think  I'm  asking  you  to 
tell  me  anything.  Tell  me  whatever  you  like — what- 
ever will  help  me  to  know  you — not  a  thing  more." 

Alice  lay  silent  for  an  instant,  then  said — 

"I  wish  you  would  ask  me  some  question!  I 
don't  know  how  to  begin  !  " 

Without  a  moments  hesitation,  Barbara  said  in 
response — 

"  What  do  you  do  all  day  in  London  ?  " 

"Sew,  sew,  sit  and  sew,  from  morning  to  night," 
answered  Alice.  "  No  sooner  one  thing  out  of  your 
hands,  than  another  in  them,  so  that  you  never  feel, 
for  all  you  do,  that  you've  done  anything !  The 
world  is  just  as  greedy  of  your  work  as  before.  I 
sometimes  wish,"  she  went  on,  with  a  laugh  that 
had  a  touch  of  real  merriment  in  it,  "  that  ladies  were 
made  with  hair  like  a  cat,  I  am  so  tired  of  the  ever- 
lasting bodice  and  skirt  ! — Only  what  would  become 
of  us  then  !  It  would  only  be  more  hunger  for  less 
weariness  ! — Its  a  downright  dreary  life,  miss  !  " 

"  Have  a  care  !  "  said  Barbara  solemnly,  and  Alice 
laughed. 

"  You  see,"  she  said,  and  paused  a  moment  as  if 
trying  to  say  Barbara,  "I'm  used  to  think  of  ladies 
as  if  they  were  a  different  creation  from  us,  and  it 
seems  rude  to  call  you — Barbara  !  " 

She  spoke  the  name  with  such  a  lingering  sweet- 
ness as  made  its  owner  thrill  with  a  new  pleasure. 

"It  seems,"  she  went  on,  "like  presuming  to — to 
— to  stroke  an  angel's  feathers  !  " 

"And  much  I'd  give  for  the  angel,"  cried  Barbara, 
"  that  wouldn't  like  having  his  feathers  stroked  by  a 
girl  like  you  !  He  might  fly  for  me,  and  go — where 
he'd  have  them  sintred  !  " 


ALICE    AND    BARBARA.  287 


"  Then  I  will  call  you  Barbara  ;  and  I  will  answer 
any  question  you  like  to  put  to  me  ! " 

"And  your  mother,  I  daresay,  is  rather  trying  when 
you  come  home?  "  said  Barbara,  resuming  her  exam- 
ination, and  speaking  from  experience.  "Mothers 
are — a  good  deal  !  " 

"Well,  you  see,  m.iss— Barbara,  my  mother  wasn't 
used  to  a  hard  life  like  us,  and  Artie— that's  my  brother 
—and  I  have  to  do  our  best  to  keep  her  from  feeling 
it ;  but  we  don't  succeed  very  well — not  as  we  should 
like  to,  that  is.  Neither  of  us  gets  much  for  our  day's 
work,  and  we  can't  do  for  her  as  we  would.  Poor 
mamma  likes  to  have  things  nice  ;  and  now  that  the 
money  she  used  to  have  is  gone — I  don't  know  how 
it  went :  she  had  it  in  some  bank,  and  somebody 
speculated  with  it,  I  suppose  ! — anyhow,  it's  gone, 
and  the  thing  can't  be  done.  Artie  grows  thinner 
and  thinner,  and  it's  no  use  !  Oh,  miss,  I  know  I 
shall  lose  him!  and  when  I  think  of  it,  the  whole 
world  seems  to  die  and  leave  me  in  a  brick-field  !  " 

She  wept  a  moment,  very  quietly,  but  very  bitterly. 

"I  know  he  does  his  very  best,"  she  resumed, 
"but  she  won't  see  it  !  She  thinks  he  might  do  more 
for  her  !  and  I'm  sure  he's  dying  1  " 

"Send  him  to  me,"  said  Barbara;  "I'll  make  him 
well  for  you." 

"I  wish  I  could,  miss — I  mean  Barbara!  Oh,  ain't 
there  a  lot  of  nice  things  that  can't  ever  be  done  !  " 

"  Does  your  mother  do  nothing  to  help.?  " 

"She  don't  know  how;  she  ain't  learned  anything 
like  us.  She  was  brought  up  a  lady.  I  remember 
her  saying  once  she  ought  to  'a'  been  a  real  lady,  a 
lady  they  say  my  lady  to  !  " 

"Indeed  !     How  was  it  then  that  she  is  not .?  " 


THERE    AND    BACK. 


"  I  don't  know.  There  are  things  we  don't  dare  ask 
mamma  about.  If  she  had  been  proud  of  them,  she 
would  have  told  us  without  asking." 

"  What  was  your  father,  Alice?  " 

The  girl  hesitated. 

"He  was  a  baronet,  Barbara. — But  perhaps  you 
would  rather  I  said  miss  again  !  " 

"Don't  be  foolish,  child  !  "  Barbara  returned  per- 
emptorily. 

"I  suppose  my  mother  meant  that  he  promised  to 
marry  her,  but  never  did.  They  say  gentlemen  think 
no  harm  of  making  such  promises — without  even 
meaning  to  keep  them  ! — I  don't  know  ! — I've  got  no 
time  to  think  about  such  things, — only " 

"Only  you're  forced!"  supplemented  Barbara. 
"I've  been  forced  to  think  about  them  too — ^just 
once.  They're  not  nice  to  think  about !  but  so  long 
as  there's  snakes,  it's  better  to  know  the  sort  of  grass 
they  lie  in  ! — Did  he  take  your  mother's  money  and 
spend  it  ? " 

"Oh,  no,  not  that!  He  was  a  gentleman,  a  bar- 
onet, you  know,  and  they  don't  do  such  things  ! " 

"  Don't  they  !  "  said  Barbara.  "  I  don't  know  what 
things  gentlemeji  don't  do  ! — But  what  happened  to 
the  money .?  There  may  be  some  way  of  getting  it 
back  !  " 

"  There's  no  hope  of  that !  I'll  tell  you  how  I  think 
it  was  :  my  father  didn't  care  to  marry  my  mother, 
for  Jie  wanted  a  great  lady  ;  so  he  said  good-bye  to 
her,  and  she  didn't  mind,  for  he  was  a  selfish  man, 
she  said.  So  she  took  the  money,  for  of  course  she 
had  to  bring  us  up,  and  couldn't  do  it  without — and 
what  they  call  invested  it.  Tliat  means,  you  know, 
that  somebody  took  charge  of  it.     So  it's  all  gone, 


ALICE    AND    BARBARA.  289 

cind  she  gets  no  interest  on  it,  and  the  shops  won"t 
trust  us  a  ha'penny  more.  We  can't  always  pay 
down  for  the  kind  of  thing  she  likes,  and  must  take 
what  we  can  pay  for,  or  go  without;  and  she  thinks 
we  might  do  better  for  her  if  we  would,  and  we  don't 
know  how.  The  other  day — I  don'  like  to  tell  it  of 
her,  even  to  you,  Barbara,  but  I'm  afraid  she  had 
been  taking  too  much,  for  she  went  to  Mrs.  Harman 
and  took  me  away,  and  said  I  could  get  much  better 
wages,  and  she  didn't  give  me  half  what  my  work 
was  worth.  I  cried,  for  I  couldn't  help  it,  I  was  that 
weak  and  broken-like,  for  I  had  had  no  breakfast  that 
morning — at  least  not  to  speak  of,  and  I  got  up  to  go, 
for  I  couldn't  say  a  word,  and  wanted  my  mother 
out  of  the  place.  But  Mrs.  Harman — she  is  a  kind 
woman  ! — she  interfered,  and  said  my  mother  had  no 
right  to  take  me  away,  and  I  must  finish  my  month. 
So  I  sat  down  again,  and  my  mother  was  forced  to 
go.  But  when  she  was  gone,  Mrs.  Harman  said  to 
me,  'The  best  thing  after  all,' says  she,  'that  you 
can  do,  Ally,  is  to  let  your  mother  have  her  way. 
You  just  stop  at  home  till  she  gets  you  a  place  where 
they'll  pay  you  better  than  I  do  !  She'll  find  out  tlic 
sooner  that  there  isn't  a  better  place  to  be  had,  for 
it's  a  slack  time  now,  and  everybody  has  too  many 
hands  !  When  her  pride  comes  down  a  bit,  you  come 
and  see  whether  I'm  able  to  take  you  on  again.' 
Now  wasn't  that  good  of  her?  " 

"  M-m-m  !  "  said  Barbara.  "  It  was  a  slack  time  ! 
— So  you  went  home  to  your  mother.?  " 

"Yes — and  it  was  just  as  Mrs.  Harman  said  :  there 
wasn't  a  stitch  wanted  !  I  went  from  place  to  place, 
asking — I  nfearly  killed  myself  walking  about  :  walk- 
ing's harder  for  one  not  used  to  it  than  sitting  ever  so 
19 


290  THERE    AND    BACK. 

long  !  So  I  went  back  to  Mrs.  Harman,  and  told 
her.  She  said  she  couldn't  have  me  just  then,  but 
she'd  keep  her  eye  on  me.  I  went  home  nearly  out 
of  my  mind.  Artie  was  growing  worse  and  worse, 
and  I  had  nothing  to  do.  It's  a  mercy  it  was  warm 
weather  ;  for  when  you  haven't  much  to  eat,  the  cold 
is  worse  than  the  heat.  Then  in  summer  you  can 
walk  on  the  shady  side,  but  in  winter  there  ain't  no 
sunny  side.  At  last,  one  night  as  I  lay  awake,  I 
made  up  my  mind  I  would  go  and  see  whether  my 
father  was  as  hard-hearted  as  people  said.  Perhaps 
he  would  help  us  over  a  week  or  two  ;  and  if  I  hadn't 
got  work  by  that  time,  we  should  at  least  be  able  to 
bear  the  hunger  !  So  the  next  day,  without  a  word 
to  mother  or  Artie,  I  vset  out  and  came  down  here." 

"And  you  didn't  see  Sir  Wilton  ?  " 

"La,  miss!  who  told  you.?  Did  I  let  out  the 
name  ? " 

"No,  you  didn't;  but,  though  there  are  a  good 
many  baronets,  they  don't  exactly  crowd  a  neighbor- 
hood !     What  did  he  say  to  you  ?  " 

"I  ain't  seen  him  yet,  miss, — Barbara,  I  mean! 
I  went  up  to  the  lodge,  and  the  woman  looked  me 
all  over,  curious  like,  from  head  to  foot  ;  and  then 
she  said  Sir  Wilton  wasn't  at  home,  nor  likely  to  be." 

"  What  a  lie  !  "  exclaimed  Barbara, 

"You  know  him  then,  Barbara.?" 

"  Yes  ;  but  never  mind.  I  must  ask  all  my  ques- 
tions first,  and  then  it  will  be  your  turn.  What  did 
you  do  next.?  " 

"I  went  away,  but  I  don't  know  what  I  did.  How 
I  came  to  be  sitting  on  that  stone  inside  that  gate,  I 
can't  tell,     I  thiuk  I  must  have  gone  searching  for  a 


ALICE    AND    BARBARA.  29 1 

place  to  die  in.  Then  Richard  came.  I  tried  hard  to 
keep  him  from  knowing  me,  but  I  couldn't." 

"  You  knew  that  Richard  was  there.'*" 

"Where,  miss.!" " 

"At  the  baronet's  place — Mortgrange." 

"Lord,  miss  !     Then  they've  acknowledged  him  !" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  that.  He's 
there  mending  their  books." 

"Then  I  oughtn't  to  have  spoken.  But  it  don't 
matter — to  you,  Barbara  !  No  ;  I  knew  nothing  about 
him  being  there,  or  anywhere  else,  for  I'd  lost  sight 
of  him.  It  was  a  mere  chance  he  found  me.  I  didn't 
know  him  till  he  spoke  to  me.  I  heard  his  step,  but 
I  didn't  look  up.  When  I  saw  who  it  was  I  tried  to 
make  him  leave  me — indeed  I  did,  but  he  would  take 
me  !  He  carried  me  all  the  way  to  the  cottage  where 
you  found  me." 

"  Why  didn't  you  want  him  to  know  you  ?  What 
have  you  against  him  .?  " 

"  Not  a  thing,  miss  !  He  would  be  a  brother  to 
me  if  I  would  let  him.  It's  a  strange  story,  and  I'm 
not  quite  sure  if  I  ought  to  tell  it." 

"Are  you  bound  in  any  way  not  to  tell  it  ?  " 

"No.     She  didn't  tell  me  about  it." 

"You  mean  your  mother  ?  " 

"No;    I  mean  his  mother." 

"  I  am  getting  bewildered  !  "  said  Barbara. 

"No  wonder,  miss!  You'll  be  more  bewildered 
yet  when  I  tell  you  all  !  " 

She  was  silent.     Barbara  saw  she  was  feeling  faint. 

"What  a  brute  I  am  to  make  you  talk  !  "  she  cried, 
and  ran  to  fetch  her  a  cup  of  milk,  which  she  made 
her  drink  slowly. 


292  THERE    AND    BACK. 


"I  must  tell  you  everything  \"  said  Alice,  after 
lying  a  moment  or  two  silent. 

"  You  shall,  to-morrow,"  said  Barbara. 

"  No  ;  I  must  now,  please  !  I  must  tell  you  about 
Richard  !  " 

"  Have  you  known  him  a  long  time  ?  " 

"I  call  him  Richard,"  said  Alice,  "because  my 
brother  does.  They  were  at  school  together.  But 
it  is  only  of  late — not  a  year  ago,  that  I  began  to  know 
him.  He  came  to  see  Arthur  once,  and  then  I  went 
with  Arthur  to  see  him  and  his  people.  But  his 
mother  behaved  very  strangely  to  me  and  asked  me 
a  great  many  questions  that  I  thought  she  had  no 
business  to  ask  me.  Before  that,  I  had  noticed  that 
she  kept  looking  from  Arthur  to  Richard,  and  from 
Richard  to  Arthur,  in  the  oddest  way  ;  I  couldn't 
make  it  out.  Then  she  asked  me  to  go  to  her  bed- 
room with  her,  and  there  she  told  me.  She  was  very 
rough  to  me,  I  thought,  but  I  must  say  the  tears  were 
in  her  own  eyes  !  She  said  she  could  not  have  Rich- 
ard keeping  company  with  us,  for  she  knew  what  my 
mother  was,  and  who  my  father  was,  and  we  were 
not  respectable  people,  and  it  would  never  do.  If 
she  heard  of  Richard  going  to  our  house  once  again, 
she  would  have  to  do  something  we  shouldn't  like. 
Then  she  cried  quite,  and  said  she  was  sorry  to  hurt 
me,  for  I  seemed  a  good  girl,  and  it  wasn't  my  fault, 
but  she  couldn't  help  it ;  the  thing  would  be  a  mis- 
chief. And  there  she  stopped  as  if  she  had  said  too 
much  already.  You  may  be  sure  \  thought  myself 
ill-used,  and  Arthur  worse  ;  for  we  both  liked  Richard, 
though  my  mother  didn't  think  him  at  all  our  equal, 
or  fit  to  be  a  companion  to  Arthur ;  for  Arthur  was 
a  clerk,  while  Richard  worked  with  his  hands.     Arthur 


ALICE    AND    BARBARA.  293 


said  he  worked  with  his  hands  too,  and  turned  out 
far  poorer  work  than  Richard — stupid  figures  instead 
of  beautiful  books  :  and  I  said  I  worked  with  my 
needle  quite  as  hard  as  Richard  with  his  tools  ;  but 
it  had  no  effect  on  my  mother  :  her  ways  of  looking- 
at  things  are  not  the  same  as  ours,  because  she  was 
born  a  lady.     Why  don't  a  lady  have  ladies,  Barbara  ?  " 

"Never  you  mind,  Alice!  Every  good  woman 
will  be  a  lady  one  day — I  am  sure  of  that !  It  was 
cruel  to  treat  you  so  !  How  anybody  belonging  to 
Richard  could  do  it,  I  can't  think  :  he's  so  gentle  and 
good  himself  !  " 

"  He's  the  kindest  and  best  of — of  men,  and  I  love 
him,"  said  Alice,  earnestly.  But  I  must  tell  you,  Bar- 
bara— I  must  make  you  understand  that  I  have  a 
right  to  love  him.  When  I  told  poor  Arthur,  as  we 
went  home  that  night,  that  he  wasn't  to  see  anymore 
of  Richard,  he  could  not  help  crying.  I  saw  it, 
though  he  tried  to  hide  it.  Of  course  I  didn't  let  him 
know  I  saw  him  cry.  Men  are  ashamed  of  crying. 
I  ain't  a  bit.  For  Richard  was  the  only  school-fellow 
ever  was  a  friend  to  Artie.  He  once  fought  a  big 
fellow  that  used  to  torment  him  !  By  the  time  we 
got  home,  I  was  boiling  over  with  rage,  and  told 
mamma  all  about  it.  Angry  as  I  was,  her  anger 
frightened  mine  out  of  me.  '  The  insolent  woman  ! ' 
she  cried.  '  But  I'll  soon  have  a  rod  in  pickle  for 
her  !  I'll  have  my  revenge  of  her — that  you  shall 
soon  see  !  My  children  weren't  good  enough  for  her 
tradesman-fellow,  weren't  they  !  She  said  that,  did 
she  .?  She  ain't  the  only  one  has  got  eyes  in  her  head  ! 
Didn't  you  see  me  look  at  him  as  sharp  as  she  did  at 
you.''  If  ever  face  told  tale  without  meaning  to  tell 
it,  that's  the  face  of  the  young  man  you  call  Richard  ! 


194  THERE    AND    BACK. 


He's  a  Lcstrange,  as  sure's  there's  a  God  in  heaven  ! 
lie's  got  the  mark  as  plain  as  Sir  WiUon  himself! 
— r.ot  a  feature  the  same,  I  grant,  but  Lestrange  is 
writ  in  every  one  of  them  !  I'll  take  my  oath  who 
was  h/'s  father  ! — And  there  she  goes  as  mim  and  as 
pnm — — !'  'No,  mamma,  I  said,  'that  she  does 
not.  She  looks  as  fierce  as  a  lioness  !  '  I  said. 
'What's  her  name?'  asked  my  mother.  'Take,' 
J  answered.  '  Was  there  ever  such  a  name  ! '  she 
cried.  'It's  fitter  for  a  dog  than  a  human  being! 
But  it's  good  enough  for  her  anyway.  What  washer 
m  iden  name  ?  Who  was  she  ?  There's  the  point  I ' 
'But  if  what  you  suspect  be  true,  mamma,'  I  said, 
'  then  she  had  good  reason  for  wishing  us  parted  !  ' 
'  She  ought  to  have  come  to  me  about  it  ! '  said  my 
mother.  '  She  ought  to  have  left  it  to  me  to  say 
what  should  be  done  !  I'm  not  married  to  a  dirty 
tradesman  ! '  I'm  not  telling  you  exactly  what  she 
said,  miss,  because  when  she  loses  her  temper, 
poor  mamma  don't  always  speak  quite  like  a  lady, 
though  of  course  she  is  one,  all  the  same !  I 
said  no  more,  but  I  thought  how  kindly  Richard  al- 
ways looked  at  me,  and  my  heart  grew  big  inside 
me  to  think  that  Artie  and  I  had  him  for  our  own 
brother.  Nobody  could  touch  that !  He  had  notions 
I  didn't  like — for,  do  you  know,  Barbara,  he  believes 
we  just  go  out  like  a  candle  that  can  never  again  be 
lighted  any  more.  He  thinks  there's  no  life  after  this 
one  !  He  can't  have  loved  anybody  much,  I  fear,  to 
be  able  to  think  that !  You  don't  agree  with  him, 
I'm  certain,  miss  !  But  I  thought,  if  he  was  my 
brother,  I  might  be  able  to  help  change  his  mind 
about  it.  I  thought  I  would  be  so  good  to  him  that 
he  wouldn't  like  me  to  die   forever   and   ever,  and 


ALICE    AND    BARBARA.  295 


would  come  to  see  things  differently.  I  had  nc) 
friend,  not  one,  you  see,  miss — Barbara,  I  mean — 
except  Arthur,  and  he  never  has  much  to  say  about 
anything,  though  he's  as  true  as  steel  ;  and  I  thought 
it  would  be  bliss  to  have  a  man-friend — I  mean 
a  good  man  for  a  real  friend,  and  I  knew  Richard 
would  be  that,  though  he  was  a  brother  !  Most 
brothers  are  not  friends  to  poor  girls.  I  know  three 
whose  brothers  get  all  they  can  out  of  them,  and 
don't  care  how  they  have  to  slave  for  it,  and  then 
spend  it  on  treats  to  other  girls  !  But  I  was  sure 
Richard  was  good,  though  he  wasn't  religious  !  So 
I  said  to  mamma  that,  now  we  knew  all  about  it, 
there  could  be  no  reason  why  we  shouldn't  see  as 
much  of  each  other  as  ever  we  liked,  seeing  Richard 
was  our  brother.  But  she  paid  no  heed  to  me  ;  she 
sat  thinking  and  thinking;  and  I  read  in  her  face 
that  she  was  not  in  a  brown  study,  but  trying  to  get 
at  something.  It  was  many  minutes  before  she 
spoke,  but  she  did  at  last,  and  what  she  told  us  is 
my  secret,  Barbara  !  But  I'm  not  bound  to  keep  it 
from  you,  for  I  know  you  would  not  hurt  Richard, 
and  you  have  a  right  to  know  whatever  I  know,  for 
you  found  my  life  and  wrapped  it  up  in  love  and 
gave  it  back  to  me,  dear  Barbara  ! — It  was  not  a 
pretty  story  for  a  mother  to  tell  her  children — and 
it's  a  sore  grief  not  to  be  able  to  think  every\ki\\\^ 
that's  good  of  your  mother  ;  but  it's  all  past  now  ; — 
and  it  isn't  our  fault — is  it,  Barbara.?" 

"Your  fault!"  cried  Barbara,  "What  do  you 
mean .? " 

"People  treat  us  as  if  it  were." 

"Never  you  mind.  You've  got  a  Father  in 
heaven  to  see  to  that !  " 


296  THERE    AND    BACK. 

"Thank  you,  Barbara  !  You  make  me  so  happy  ! 
Now  I  can  tell  you  all! — 'I've  got  it ! '  cried  my 
mother.  '  Bless  my  soul,  what  an  ass  I  was  not  to 
see  through  it  at  once  !  Now  you  just  listen  to  me  : 
Sir  Wilton  was  married  before  he  married  his  present 
wife.  He  never  thought  of  getting  rid  of  me  for  the 
first  one,  you  understand,  for  she  wasn't  a  lady — 
though  they  do  say  she  was  a  handsome  creature  ! 
She  was  that  low,  you  wouldn't  believe  ! — ^just  no- 
body at  all  !  Her  father  was — what  do  you  think.? 
— a  country  blacksmith  !  And  though  he  had  me, 
he  -ivoiild  marry  her  !  Oh  the  men  !  the  men  !  they 
are  incomprehensible  !  It  made  me  mad  !  To  tliink 
he  wouldn't  marry  me,  and  he  would  marry  her,  and 
I  might  have  had  him  myself  "if  I'd  only  been  as  hard- 
hearted and  stood  out  as  long  !  But  the  fact  was,  I 
was  in  love  M'ith  your  father  !  No  one  could  help  it, 
when  he  laid  himself  out  to  make  you  !  I  couldn't 
anyhow,  though  I  tried  hard.  But  she  could  !  For  all 
her  beauty,  she  was  that  cold  !  ice  was  nothing  to  her  ! 
He  told  me  so  himself  ! — Well,  when  her  time  came, 
she  died — never  more  than  just  saw  the  child,  and 
died.  I  believe  myself  she  died  of  fright  ;  for  Sir 
Wilton  told  me  he  was  the  ugliest  child  ever  came 
into  this  world  !  He  must,  said  his  father,  have 
come  straight  from  the  devil,  for  no  one  else  could 
have  made  him  so  ugly!  Well,  what  must  your 
father  go  and  do  next,  but  marry  an  earl's  daughter  ! 
— nobody  too  good  for  him  after  the  blacksmith's } 
— and  within  a  month  or  so,  what  should  his  nurse 
do  but  walk  off  with  the  child!  From  that  day  to 
this,  so  far  as  ever  I've  heard,  there's  been  no  news 
of  him.  It's  years  and  years  that  all  the  world  has 
given  him  up  for  lost.     Now  mark  what  I  say  :  I  feel 


ALICE    AND    BARBARA.  297 


morally  certain  that  this  Richard,  as  you  call  him,  is 
that  same  child,  and  heir  to  all  the  Lestrange  prop- 
erty !  That  woman  Tuke — what  a  name  ! — she's 
the  nurse  that  carried  him  off;  and  who  knows  but 
the  man  married  her  for  the  chance  of  what  the 
child's  succession  might  bring  them  !  They  mean 
to  tell  the  fellow,  when  the  proper  time  comes,  how 
they  saved  him  from  being  murdered  by  his  step- 
mother, and  carried  him  off  at  the  risk  of  their  lives  ! 
Well  they  knew  him  for  a  pot  of  money  !  You  may 
be  certain  they've  got  all  the  proofs  safe  !  I  liate  the 
ugly  devil  !  What  right  has  he  to  come  to  an  estate, 
and  have  my  children  looked  dowir  upon  by  Mrs. 
Bookbinder  !  I'll  put  a  spoke  in  her  wheel,  though  ! 
I'll  have  one  little  finger  in  their  pie  !  They  sha'n't 
burn  their  mouths  with  it — no,  not  they  ! '  I  treasured 
every  word  my  mother  said — I  was  so  glad  all  the 
while  to  think  of  Richard  as  the  head  of  the  family. 
I  could  not  help  the  feeling  that  I  belonged  to  the 
family,  for  was  not  the  same  blood  in  Richard  and  in 
us?  'Alice,'  my  mother  said,  'mark  my  words! 
That  Richard,  as  you  call  him,  is  heir  to  the  title 
and  estate !  But  if  you  speak  one  word  on  the 
subject  until  I  give  you  leave,  to  your  Richard  or  to 
any  live  soul,  I'll  tear  your  tongue  out — I  will  ! — And 
you  know  well  that  what  I  say,  I  do  ! '  I  knew  well 
that  poor  mamma  very  seldom  did  what  she  said, 
and  I  was  not  afraid  of  her ;  but  I  grew  more  and 
more  afraid  of  doing  anything  to  interfere  with 
Richard's  prospects.  I  met  him  one  night  in  Regent 
street,  a  terrible,  stormy  night,  and  was  so  fluttered 
at  seeing  him,  and  so  frightened  lest  I  should  let 
something  out  that  might  injure  him,  that  I  nearly 
killed  myself  by  running  against  a  lamp-post  in  my 


290  THERE    AND    BACK. 

hurry  to  get  away  from  him.  But  to  be  quite  honest 
with  you,  Barbara,  what  I  was  most  afraid  of  was, 
that  he  would  go  on  faUing'  in  love  with  me  ;  and  that, 
when  he  found  out  what  we  were  to  each  other,  it 
would  break  his  heart  :  I  have  heard  of  such  a  thing  ! 
For  you  see  I  durst  not  tell  him  !  And  besides,  it 
mightn't  be  so,  after  all  !  So  I  had  to  be  cruel  to  him  ! 
He  must  have  thought  me  a  brute  !  And  now  for 
him  to  appear,  far  away  from  everywhere,  just  in 
time  to  save  me  from  dying  of  cold  and  hunger — ain't 
it  wonderful  ? " 

But  Barbara  sat  silent.  It  was  her  turn  to  sit  think- 
ing and  thinking.  Why  had  the  strange  story  come 
to  her  ears  ?  There  must  be  something  for  her  to  do 
in  the  next  chapter  of  it  ! 

"How  much  do  you  think  Richard  may  know 
about  the  thing. i*  "  she  asked. 

"  I  don't  believe  he  has  a  suspicion  that  he  is  any- 
thing but  the  son  of  the  book-binder,"  Alice  answered. 
"  If  Mrs.  Tuke  did  take  him,  I  wonder  why  it  really 
was.  What  do  you  think,  Barbara.?  To  me  she 
does  not  look  at  all  a  designing  woman.  She  may  be  a 
daring  one  :  I  could  fancy  her  sticking  at  nothing  she 
saw  reason  for  !  If  she  did  it,  she  f?ius/  have  done  it 
for  the  sake  of  the  child  !  " 

' '  It  was  much  too  great  a  risk  to  run  for  any  advan- 
tage to  herself, "  assented  Barbara.  "Then  they  have 
had  to  provide  for  him  all  the  time  !  Have  they  any 
children  of  their  own  .? '"' 

"  I  don't  think  any." 

"Then  it  is  possible  she  took  such  a  fancy  to  the 
child  she  was  nursing,  that  she  could  not  bear  to  part 
with  him.  I  have  heard  of  women  like  that,  out  with 
us. — But  what  arc  we  to  do,  Alice.?      Is  it  right  to 


ALICE    AND    BARBARA.  299 

leave  the  thing  so  ?     Ought  we  not  to  do  anything? " 

"I  don't  know;  I  can't  tell  a  bit  I  "  answered 
Alice.  "  I  have  thought  and  thought,  lying  alone  in 
the  night,  but  never  could  make  up  my  mind.  Sup- 
posing you  were  sure  it  was  so,  there  is  yet  the 
danger  of  interfering  witli  those  who  know  all  about 
him,  and  can  do  the  best  for  him  ;  and  there's  the 
danger  of  what  my  mother  might  be  tempted  to  do  the 
moment  any  one  moved  in  the  matter.  To  hasten  the 
thing  might  spoil  all  ! — Isn't  it  strange,  Barbara,  how 
much  your  love  for  your  mother  seems  independent 
of  her — her  character  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  ; — yes,  I  think  you  are  right.  There 
is  my  mother,  who  has  no  guile  in  her,  but  is  ready 
to  burn  you  to  ashes  before  you  know  what  she  is 
angry  about !  When  you  trust  her,  and  go  to  her  for 
help,  she  is  ready  to  die  for  you.  I  love  her  with  all 
my  heart,  but  I  can't  say  she's  an  exemplary  woman. 
I  don't  think  Mr.  Wingfold — that's  our  clergyman — 
would  say  so  either,  though  he  professes  quite  an 
admiration  of  her." 

Thereupon  Barbara  told  Alice  the  story  of  her 
mother's  behavior  in  church,  and  how  the  parson  had 
caught  her. 

"  But  nobody  knows  to  this  day,"  she  concluded, 
"  whether  he  intended  so  to  catch  her,  or  was  only 
teaching  his  people  by  a  parable,  and  she  caught  her- 
self in  its  meshes.  Caught  she  was,  anyhow,  and 
has  never  entered  the  church  since  !  But  she  speaks 
very  differently  of  the  clergyman  now." 

"I  feel  greatly  tempted  sometimes,"  resumed  Alice, 
"to  let  Richard  knovi'  ;  for,  surely,  whatever  be  the 
projects  of  other  people  concerning  him,  a  man  has 
the  right  to  know  where  he  came  from  !  " 


300  THERE    AND    BACK. 


"  Yes,"  answered  Bcirbara,  "  a  man  must  have  the 
right  to  know  what  other  people  know  about  him  ! 
And  yet  it  would  be  a  pity  to  ruin  the  plans  of  good 
people  who  had  all  the  time  been  working  and  caring 
for  him.  I  wonder  if  he  was  in  danger  from  Lady 
Ann  ?  I  have  heard  out  there  of  terrible  things  done 
to  get  ones  way  I  She  is  a  death-like  woman  !  His 
nurse  might  well  be  afraid  of  what  his  stepmother 
might  do  !  I  can  quite  fancy  her  making  off  with 
him  in  an  agony  of  terror  lest  he  should  be  poisoned, 
or  smothered,  or  buried  alive  !  But  what  if  they  sent 
him  away,  with  a  hint  to  the  nurse  that  his  absence 
might  as  well  be  permanent.?  What  if  any  search 
they  made  for  him  was  nothing  but  a  farce  .''  T  wish 
\xe  knew  what  ground  there  is  for  inquiring  whether 
he  may  not  be  the  child  that  was  lost — if  indeed  there 
was  a  child  lost !  I  have  not  heard  at  the  house  any 
allusion  to  such  an  occurrence." 

Much  more  talk  ensued.  The  girls  came  to  the 
conclusion  that,  for  the  present,  they  must  do  nothing 
that  might  let  the  secret  out  of  their  keeping.  They 
must  wait  and  watch  :  when  the  right  thing  grew 
plain,  they  would  do  it ! 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

BARBARA     THINKS. 

Barbara  rode  home  with  strange  things  in  her  mind. 
Here  was  a  romance  brought  to  her  very  door  !  She 
M'^as  nowise  hungry  after  romance,  being  of  the  es- 
sence of  romance  her  own  lovely  self,  in  the  simplic- 
ity which  carried  her  direct  to  the  heart  of  things. 
She  M'-as  life  in  such  relation  to  life,  that  her  very  ex- 
istence was  natural  romance.  How  should  there  be 
any  romance  to  equal  that  of  pure  being,  of  existence 
regarded  and  encountered  face  to  face,  of  the  voyage 
forth  from  the  heart  of  life,  and  the  toilsome  journey, 
peril-beset,  back  to  the  home  of  that  same  heart  of 
hearts  !  Here  was  one  wrapt  in  a  strange  cloud  : 
Why  should  she  not  pass  through  the  cloud,  and  join 
her  fellow-traveller  within  ? 

Naturally  then,  from  this  time,  the  thoughts  of 
Barbara  rested  not  a  little  upon  the  person  and  un- 
devloped  history  of  the  man  with  whose  being  she 
was  before  linked  by  a  greater  indebtedness  than  any 
but  herself  could  understand.  Any  enlargement  of 
relation  to  the  unseen  world — the  world,  I  mean,  of 
thought  and  reality,  region  of  recognizable  relation, 
or  force — is  an  immeasurably  more  precious  gift  than 
any  costliest  thing  that  a  mortal  may  call  his  own 
until  death,  but  must  then  pass  on  to  another  ;  and 
Richard  had  thrown  open  to  Barbara  the  wealthiest 
regions  of  the  literature  of  her  race  !  She,  on  her  part, 
had  so   much   influenced   him,  that   he   had  at  least 


302  THERE    AND    BACK. 

become  far  less  overbearing  in  the  presentment  of  his 
unbelief.  For  Barbara's  idea,  call  it,  if  you  will,  her 
imagination  of  a  God,  was  one  with  which  none  of 
those  things  for  the  hate's  sake  of  which  he  had  be- 
come the  champion  of  a  negation,  held  fellowship  ; 
and  he  carried  himself  toward  it  with  so  much  cour- 
tesy that  she  had  begun  to  hope  he  was  slowly  follow- 
ing her  out  of  the  desert  places,  where,  little  as  she 
yet  knew  about  God,  she  felt  life  impossible.  The 
strongest  bonds  were  thus  in  process  of  binding  them  ; 
and  Barbara's  feeling  toward  Richard  might  very 
naturally  develop  into  one  or  other  of  the  million 
forms  to  which  we  give  the  common  name  of  love. 
As  for  Richard,  he  was  already  aware  that  his 
feeling  toward  Barbara  could  be  no  other  than  love  ; 
but  he  knew  love  as  only  the  few  know  it  who  give 
themselves,  who  cherish  no  hope,  look  for  no  re- 
sponse, dream  of  no  claim.  To  e.xpect  any  return 
of  his  devotion  would  have  seemed  to  Richard  the 
simplest  absurdity.  He  did  not  even  say  to  himself 
that  the  thing  could  not  be.  Not  therefore,  however, 
was  he  to  escape  suffering  ;  the  seeds  of  it  were 
already  sown  in  him  plentifully,  though  its  first  leaves 
are  not  to  be  distinguished  from  those  of  other  j^lar.ts, 
and  it  sometimes  takes  long  for  the  flower  to  ap- 
jiear.  Barbara  was  lovely  to  Richard  as  the  Luna 
of  a  heavenly  sky,  descending  and  talking  with  him, 
the  Diana  of  a  lower  world,  bound  by  her  destiny, 
and  without  a  choice,  to  return  to  her  heaven,  and 
be  once  more  the  far,  unapproachable  Luna.  She 
shone  in  his  eyes  like  a  lovely  mysterious  gem  which 
he  might  wear  for  an  hour,  but  which  must  present- 
ly, with  its  hundredfold  shadow  and  shine,  pass  from 
his  keeping.      He  knew  that  love  was  his,  but  he  did 


BARBARA    THINKS.  303 


not  know  that  he  was  Love's.  He  knew  he  loved 
Barbara,  but  he  did  not  know  that  her  exquisiteness 
was  permeating  his  whole  being  with  an  endless 
possession.  In  truth  no  man  good  and  free  could 
have  kept  her  soul  out  of  his.  She  was  so  delicate, 
yet  so  strong ;  so  steady,  yet  so  ready  ;  so  original, 
yet  so  infinitely  responsive — what  could  he  do  but 
throw  his  doors  wide  to  her  !  what  could  he  do  but 
love  her  ! 

And  now  that  Barbara  believed  she  knew  more 
about  him  than  he  did  himself ;  now  that  the  road 
appeared  to  lie  open  between  them,  would  she  es- 
cape falling  in  love  with  such  a  man  whose  hands 
of  labor  were  mastered  with  a  head  full  of  under- 
standing, and  whose  head  was  quickened  by  a  heart 
in  which  dwelt  an  imagination  at  once  receptive  and 
productive  ?  Could  any  true  woman  despise  the  love 
of  such  a  workman  ? 

From  this  time,  for  some  weeks,  they  saw  less  of 
each  other.  Without  knowing  it,  Barbara  had,  since 
the  revelation  of  Alice,  grown  a  little  shy  of  Richard. 
It  came  of  her  truthfulness,  mainly.  As  Dante  felt 
ashamed  of  the  discourteous  advantage  of  alone  pos- 
sessing eyesight  in  the  presence  of  the  poor  souls 
upon  the  second  cornice  of  the  purgatorial  mountain, 
just  so  Barbara,  without  altogether  defining  to  her- 
self her  feeling,  regarded  it  as  unfair  to  Richard,  as 
indeed  taking  an  advantage  of  him,  to  seek  his  com- 
pany knowing  about  him  more  than  she  seemed  to 
know.  She  felt  even  deceitful  in  appearing  to  know 
of  him  only  what  he  chose  to  tell  her,  while  in  truth 
she  more  than  suspected  she  knew  of  him  what  he 
did  not  know  himself.  She  not  only  knew  more 
than  she  seemed  to  know,  but  she  knew  more  than 


304  THERE    AND    BACK. 

Richard  himself  knew  !  At  the  same  time  she  felt 
that  she  had  no  right  to  tell  him  what  she  almost 
believed  ;  she  ought  first  to  be  certain  of  it !  If  the 
conjecture  were  untrue,  what  harm  might  it  not, 
believed  by  him,  occasion  both  to  him  and  his 
parents  !  Supposing  it  true,  if  those  who  had  cherished 
him  all  his  life  did  not  tell  him  the  fact,  could  it 
be  right  in  her,  coming  by  accident  upon  it,  to  ac- 
quaint him  with  it?  Whether  true  or  not,  it  must,  if 
believed  by  him,  change  the  whole  tenor  of  his  way 
— might  perhaps,  seeing  he  had  no  faith  in  God,  de- 
stroy the  very  tone  of  his  life;  certainly,  if  untrue,  it 
would  cause  endless  grief  to  the  parents  whom  to  Ue- 
lieve  it  would  be  to  repudiate  !  Richard  was  indeed, 
she  allowed,  in  less  danger  of  being  injured  by  the 
suggestion  than  any  other  young  man  she  had 
known  ;  but  the  risk,  a  great  one,  was  there. 

She  did  not  now,  therefore,  go  so  often  to  Mort- 
grange.  Every  day  she  went  out  for  her  gallop — 
unattended,  for,  accustomed  to  the  freedom  of  hun- 
dreds of  leagues  of  wild  country,  the  very  notion  of 
a  groom  behind  her  was  hateful — and  would  often 
find  herself  making  for  some  point  whence  she  could 
see  the  chimneys  of  the  house  when  the  resolve  of 
the  day  was  one  of  abstinence,  but  that  resolve 
she  never  broke.  If  it  was  not  the  drawing-room 
and  Theodora,  but  the  library  and  Richard;  not  the 
hideous  flowers  that  happily  never  came  alive  from 
Lady  Ann's  needle,  but  the  old  books  reviving  to  au- 
tumnal beauty  under  the  patient,  healing  touch  of 
the  craftsman,  that  ever  drew  her  all  the  way,  who 
can  wonder  ?  Or  who  will  blame  her  but  such  as 
Lady  Ann,  whose  kind,  though  slowly,  yet  surely 
vanishes — melting,  like  the  grimy  snow  of  our  streets, 


BARBARA    THINKS.  305 

before  the  sun  of  righteousness,  and  the  coming- 
kingdom. 

Lady  Ann  and  she  were  now  on  the  same  footing 
as  before  their  misunderstanding,  if  indeed  their 
whole  relation  was  anything  better  than  a  misunder- 
standing ;  for  what  Lady  Ann  knew  of  Barbara  she 
misunderstood,  and  what  she  did  not  know  of  Bar- 
bara was  the  best  of  her ;  while  what  Barbara  knew 
of  Lady  Ann,  she  also  misunderstood,  and  what  she 
did  not  know  of  Lady  Ann  was  the  worse  of  her. 
But  Barbara  had  told  Lady  Ann  that  she  was  sorry 
she  had  spoken  to  her  as  she  had,  and  Lady  Ann  had 
received  the  statement  as  an  expected  apology. 
Their  quarrel  had  indeed  given  Lady  Ann  no  uneasi- 
ness. Daughter  of  one  ancient  house,  and  mother 
in  another,  a  pillar  of  society,  a  live  dignity  with 
matronly  back  flat  as  any  coffin-lid,  she  was  of  course 
in  the  right,  and  could  afford  to  await  the  acknowl- 
edgment of  wrong  due  and  certain  from  an  ill  bred 
and  ill  educated  chit  of  the  colonies !  For  how 
could  any  one  continue  indifferent  to  the  favor  of 
Lady  Ann !  She  was  incapable  of  perceiving  the 
merit  of  Barbara's  apology,  or  appreciating  the  sweet- 
ness from  which  it  came.  For  the  genial  Barbara 
could  not  bear  dissension.  She  had  seen  enough 
of  it  to  hate  it.  In  just  defense  of  a  friend  she 
would  fight  to  the  last,  but  in  any  matter  of  her  own, 
she  was  ready  to  see,  or  even  imagine  herself  in  the 
wrong.  Anger  in  its  reaction  always  made  her  feel 
ill,  which  feeling  she  was  apt  to  take  for  a  reminder 
from  conscience,  when  she  would  make  haste  to 
apologize. 

Lady  Ann's  relations  with  Barbara  were  therefore 
not  so  much  restored  as  unchanged.     The  elder  lady 


3o6  THERE    AND    BACK. 


neither  sought  nor  avoided  the  younger,  gave  her 
always  the  same  cold  welcome  and  farewell,  yet 
was  as  much  pleased  to  see  her  as  ever  to  see  any- 
body. She  regarded  her  as  the  merest  of  butterflies, 
with  pretty  flutter  and  no  stay — a  creature  of  wings 
and  nonsense,  carried  hither  and  thither  by  slightest 
puff  of  inclination  :  it  was  the  judgment  of  a  cater- 
pillar upon  a  humming-bird.  There  was  more  stuff 
in  Barbara,  with  all  her  seeming  volatility,  than  in  a 
wilderness  of  Lady  Anns.  The  friendship  between 
such  a  twain  could  hardly  consist  in  more  than  the 
absence  of  active  disapproval. 

When  Barbara  went  into  the  library,  she  would 
always  greet  Richard  as  if  she  had  seen  him  but  the 
day  before,  asking  what  piece  of  work  he  was  at 
now,  and  showing  an  interest  in  it  as  genuine  as  her 
interest  in  himself.  If  there  was  anything  in  it  she 
did  not  quite  understand,  he  must  there  and  then  ex- 
plain it.  So  eager  was  she  to  know,  that  he  had  not 
seldom  to  remind  her  that  his  minutes  were  not  his 
own.  But  now  and  then  he  would  lay  aside  his 
work  for  a  time,  never  forgetting  to  make  up  for  the 
interval  afterward,  and  show  her  some  process  from 
beginning  to  end.  For  Barbara,  finding  now  more 
time  on  her  hands,  had  begun  to  try  her  repairing 
faculty  on  some  of  the  old  books  in  the  house,  hoping 
one  day  to  surprise  Richard  with  what  she  had  done, 
and  this  led  to  her  asking  many  and  far-reaching 
questions  in  the  art. 

But  Richard  continued  to  give  her  his  more  im- 
portant aid:  he  was  still  her  master  in  literature, 
directing  her  what  to  read  and  what  to  meditate,  and 
instructing  her  how  to  get  her  mind  to  rest  on  things. 
He  was  the  most  capable  of  teachers,  for  he  followed 


BARBARA    THINKS.  307 

simply  the  results  of  his  own  experience.  Havin<^ 
prepared  for  her,  with  his  father's  help,  a  manuscript 
book  of  hand-made  paper,  bouiKl  in  levant  morocco, 
the  edges  gilded  in  the  rough,  he  made  her  copy 
certain  poems  into  it,  attending  carefully  to  every 
point  and  each  minutest  formality.  He  would  not 
have  her  copy  whatever  she  might  choose  ;  she  could 
not  yet,  he  said,  choose  to  advantage  ;  for  she  was 
of  such  a  ' '  keen  clear  joyance, "  that,  happy  over  what 
was  not  the  best,  she  would  waste  her  love.  But 
neither  would  he  altogether  choose  for  her  :  from 
among  the  poems  he  had  already  brought  before  her 
she  must  take  those  she  liked  best !  This,  he  said, 
would  make  her  choice  a  real  one,  for  it  would  take 
place  between  poems  already  known  to  her,  with 
regard  to  which  therefore  she  was  in  a  position  to  de- 
termine her  own  preference.  Then  the  unavoidable 
brooding  over  it  caused  in  the  copying  of  the  one 
chosen,  would  make  it  grow  in  her  mind,  and  assume 
something  of  the  shape  it  had  in  the  author's. 

To  Arthur  Lestrange,  who,  notwithstanding  the 
unlikeness  between  him  and  Barbara,  and  notwith- 
standing the  frequent  shocks  his  conventional  pro- 
priety received  from  her  divine  liberty,  had  been  for 
some  time  falling  in  love  with  her,  these  interviews, 
which  he  never  hesitated  to  interrupt  the  moment  he 
pleased,  could  hardly  be  agreeable.  He  never  sup- 
posed that  in  them  anything  passed  of  which  he  could 
have  complained  had  he  been  the  girl's  affanced 
lover  ;  but  he  did  not  relish  the  thought  that  she  looked 
to  the  workman  and  not  his  employer  for  help  in  her 
studies.  Nor  was  it  consolation  to  him  to  be  aware 
that  he  could  no  more  give  her  what  the   workman 


THERE    AND    BACK. 


gave  her,  than  he  could  teach  her  his  bookbinding — 
and  which  also  the  eager  Barbara  grasped. 

At  Wylder  Hall  no  questions  were  ever  asked  as  to 
how  she  had  spent  the  day.  Her  mother,  although 
now  that  her  twin  was  gone,  she  loved  her  best  in 
the  world,  never  troubled  her  head  about  what  she 
did  with  herself.  Although  Barbara  was  now  a  little 
more  at  home  than  formerly,  she  and  her  mother 
were  scarcely  together  an  hour  in  a  week  except 
at  meals.  She  thought  Arthur  Lestrange  would  make 
a  good  enough  husband  for  Bab,  and,  having  chanced 
on  some  sign  that  her  husband  cherished  hopes  of  a 
loftier  alliance,  grew  rather  favorable  to  a  match 
between  them. 

There  was,  however,  a  little  betterment  in  Mrs. 
Wylder,  and  ceasing  to  go  to  church  was  only  one 
of  the  indications  of  it.  She  had  in  her  a  foundation 
of  genuine  simplicity,  and  was  in  essence  a  generous 
soul.  Any  one  who  wondered  at  the  combination 
of  strange  wild  charm  and  honest  strength  in  the 
daughter,  would  have  wondered  much  less  had  he 
gained  the  least  insight  into  what,  beneath  the  ruin 
of  earthquake  and  tornado,  lay  buried  in  the  soul  of 
her  mother.  The  best  of  changes  is  slow  in  most 
natures,  and  the  main  question  is,  perhaps,  whether 
it  goes  slowly  because  of  feebleness  and  instability, 
and  consequent  frequency  of  relapse,  or  because  of 
the  root-nature,  the  thoroughness,  and  the  magni- 
tude of  what  has  been  initiated.  But  Mrs,  Wylder 
was  tropical  :  any  real  change  in  her  would  soon 
reach  a  point  where  it  must  become  swift  as  well  as 
comprehensive. 

Since  returning  to  the  trammels  of  a  more  civilized 
life,  Mr.  Wylder  had  grown  self-absorbed,  and  from 


BARBARA    THINKS.  309 


a  loud,  lawless  man  had  become  a  sombre,  some- 
times morose  person.  One  great  cause  of  the  change, 
however,  was,  that  the  remaining  twin,  his  favorite, 
had  for  some  time  shown  signs  of  a  failing  constitu- 
tion. His  increasing  feebleness  weighed  heavily  on 
his  father.  He  had  had  a  tutor  ever  since  they  came 
to  England,  but  now  they  did  little  or  no  work  to- 
together,  spending  their  hours  mostly  in  wandering 
about  the  grounds,  and  in  fitful  reading  of  books  of 
any  sort  in  which  the  boy  could  be  led  to  take  a  pass- 
ing interest.  Barbara's  heart  yearned  after  him,  but 
he  was  greatly  attached  to  his  nurse,  and  did  not 
care  for  Barbara. 

The  dissension  between  husband  and  wife  about 
the  twins,  had  its  origin  mainly  with  the  mother,  but 
sprung  from  the  generosity  of  her  nature  :  the  twin 
she  favored  was  sickly  from  infancy.  A  woman  such 
as  Mrs.  Wylder  might  have  been  expected  to  shrink 
from  the  puny,  suffering  creature,  and  give  her  affec- 
tion and  approbation  to  the  other,  as  did  her  hus- 
band ;  but  it  was  just  here  that  the  true  in  her,  the 
the  pure  womanly,  came  to  the  surface  and  then  to 
the  front :  the  child  had  an  appealing  look,  which, 
when  first  she  saw  him,  v^^ent  straight  to  the  heart  of 
the  strong  mother,  and  afterward  roused,  if  not  enough 
of  the  protective,  yet  all  the  defensive  in  her.  From 
herself  she  did  not,  and  from  death  she  could  not 
save  him.  He  died  rather  suddenly,  and  now  the 
strong  one  seemed  slowly  sinking.  The  mother  did 
not  heed  him,  and  the  father,  for  very  misery,  could 
scarcely  look  at  him  :  he  was  to  him  like  one  dead 
already,  only  not  dead  enough  to  be  buried. 


CHAPTER   XXXI. 

WINGFOLD    AND    BARBARA. 

The  bickerings  between  her  father  and  mother  had 
had  not  a  httle  to  do  with  the  pecuh'ar  features  of 
Barbara's  life  in  the  colony.  As  soon  as  she  saw  a 
cloud  rising,  having  learned  by  frequent  experience 
what  it  was  sure  to  result  in,  she  would  creep  away, 
mount  one  of  the  many  horses  at  her  choice,  and 
race  from  the  house  like  a  dog  in  terror,  till  she  was 
miles  from  the  spot  where  her  father  and  mother 
would  by  that  time  be  writhing  in  fiercest  wordy 
warfare.  What  the  object  of  their  wrangling  might 
be,  she  never  inquired.  It  was  plain  to  her  almost 
from  the  first  that  nothing  was  gained  by  it  beyond 
the  silence  of  fatigue  ;  and  as  that  silence  was  always 
fruitful  of  new  strife,  it  brought  a  comfort  known  to 
be  but  temporary.  Had  she  not  been  accustomed  to 
it  from  earliest  childhood,  it  would  have  been  terrible 
to  her  to  see  human  lives  going  off  in  such  a  foul 
smoke  of  hell  !  Not  a  sentence  was  uttered  by  the 
one  but  was  furiously  felt  as  a  wrong  by  the  other — 
to  be  remorselessly  met  by  wrong  as  flagrant,  rous- 
ing in  its  turn  the  indignation  of  injury  to  a  pain 
unendurable.  It  is  strange  that  the  man  v.-lio  most 
keenly  feels  the  wrong  done  him,  should  so  often  be 
the  most  insensible  to  the  wrong  he  does.  So 
dominant  is  the  unreason  of  the  moment,  that  the 
injury  he  inflicts  appears  absolute  justice,  and  the 
injury  he  suffers  absolute  injustice.     Yet  such   dis- 


WINGFOLD  AND  BARBARA.  3II 


]-)utes  turn  seldom  upon  the  main  point  a  issue  be- 
tween the  parties  ;  it  may  not  even  once  be  men- 
tioned, while  some  new  trifle  is  fought  over  with  all 
the  bitterness  of  the  aHenation  that  lies  gnawing  and 
biting  and  burning  beneath.  War  is  raging  between 
kingdoms  for  the  possession  of  a  hovel,  which  pos- 
sessed, the  quarrel  were  no  nearer  settlement  than 
before  ! 

Hence  it  came  that  Barbara  paid  so  little  regard  to 
her  mother's  challenge  of  the  clergyman.  Single 
combat  of  the  sort  she  seemed  to  seek  was  an  ex- 
perience of  Barbara's  life  too  often  recurrent  to  be 
interesting  ;  the  thunders  of  its  artillery,  near  or  afar, 
passed  over  her  almost  unheeded.  She  had  indeed 
sufficient  respect  for  the  forms  of  religion  to  regret 
that  her  mother  should  make  her  behavior  in  church 
the  talk  of  the  parish,  and  to  be  rather  pleased  that 
the  clergyman  should  have  had  the  best  of  it  in  his 
joust  of  arms  with  her,  but  further  interest  in  the 
matter  she  scarcely  took. 

On  a  certain  day.  Miss  Brown  wanting  at  least  one 
pair  of  new  shoes,  and  her  mistress  cherishing  the 
idea  of  a  lesson  in  shoeing  her,  for  which  lesson 
arrangement  had  not  even  yet  been  made,  Barbara, 
having  been  all  the  afternoon  in  the  house,  went  out 
toward  sunset,  to  have  a  walk  with  a  book. 

She  was  sauntering  along  a  grassy  road  which, 
though  within  their  own  park,  belonged  to  the  pub- 
lic, when  she  almost  ran  against  a  man  similarly 
occupied  with  herself,  for  he  also  was  absorbed  in 
the  book  he  carried.  I  should  like  to  know  what  two 
books  brought  them  thus  together  !  Each  started 
back  with  an  apology,  then  both  burst  into  a  modest 
laugh,  which  renewed  itself  with  merrier  ring,  when 


312  THERE    AND    BACK. 

the  first  and  then  the  second  attempt  to  pass,  with 
all  space  for  elbow-room,  failed,  and  they  stood 
opposite  each  other  in  a  hopeless  mental  paralysis. 

"  Fate  is  opposed  to  our  unneighborliness  !  "  said 
Mr.  Wingfold.  "She  will  not  allow  us  to  pass,  and 
depart  in  peace  !  What  do  you  say,  Miss  Wylder  ? 
— shall  we  yield  or  shall  we  resist  ?  " 

As  he  spoke,  he  held  out  his  hand. 

Now  Barbara  was  the  last  person  in  the  world  to 
refuse,  without  a  painfully  good  reason,  any  offered 
hand.  She  had  never  seen  cause  to  desire  the  ac- 
quaintance of  a  man  because  he  was  a  clergyman  ; 
but  neither  had  she  any  unwillingness,  because  he 
was  a  clergyman,  to  make  his  acquaintance  ;  while 
to  Thomas  Wingfold  she  already  felt  some  attrac- 
tion :  the  strong  little  hand  was  in  his  immediately, 
and  felt  comfortable  in  the  great  honest  clasp,  which 
it  returned  heartily. 

"I  never  saw  you  on  your  own  feet  before,  Miss 
Wylder  !  "  said  the  clergyman. 

"Nor  on  anybody  else's,  I  hope  !  "  she  returned. 

"Oh,  yes,  indeed! — on  Miss  Brown's  many  a 
time !  " 

"You  know  Miss  Brown  then.?  She  is  my  most 
intimate  friend  !  " 

"I  am  well  aware  of  that!  Everything  worth 
knowing  in  the  parish,  and  a  good  deal  that  is  not, 
comes  to  my  ears." 

"  May  I  hope  you  count  Miss  Brown's  affairs  worth 
hearing  about,  then  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  do  !  Does  not  a  lady  call  her  friend, 
whose  acquaintance  I  have  long  wished  to  make  ! 
and  do  I  not  knoM''  that  Miss  Brown  loves  her  in 
return  !     I  cannot  help  sometimes  regretting  for  a 


WINGFOLD    AND    BARBARA.  313 

moment  that  four-footed  friends  in  g-eneral  are  so 
shortlived." 

"  Why  only  for  a  moment  ?  "  said  Barbara. 

"  Because  I  remind  myself  that  it  must  be  best  for 
them  and  us — best  for  the  friendship  between  us,  best 
for  us  every  way.  But  indeed  I  have  more  to  be 
thankful  for  in  the  relation  than  most  people  of  my 
acquaintance,  for  I  sometimes  drive  a  pony  yet  that 
is  over  forty  1  " 

'  *  Forty  years  of  age  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  I  should  like  to  see  that  pony  !  ' 

"  You  shall  see  her,  any  day  you  will  come  to  the 
parsonag-e.  I  will  gladly  introduce  her  to  you,  but 
it  is  getting  rather  late  to  desire  her  acquaintance  : 
she  does  not  see  very  well,  and  is  not  so  good-tem- 
pered as  she  once  was.      But  she  will  soon  be  better." 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  She  has  a  process  to  go  through  out  of  which  she 
will  come  ever  so  much  the  better." 

"Good  gracious!  you're  not  going  to  have  an 
operation  performed  on  her — at  her  age  ?  " 

' '  She  is  going  to  have  her  body  stript  off  her  !  " 

"  Good  gracious  !  "  cried  Barbara  again,  but  with 
yet  greater  energy — then  seeing  what  he  meant, 
laughed  at  her  mistake. 

"But  then,"  she  said,  with  eager  resumption,  "  you 
must  believe  there  is  something  to  strip  her  body 
off.?     /do  !     I  have  always  thought  so  !  " 

"  So  have  I,  and  so  I  do  indeed  !  "  answered  Wing- 
ford.  "  I  can't  prove  it.  I  can't  prove  anything — 
to  my  own  satisfaction,  that  is,  though  I  dare  say  I 
might  to  the  satisfaction  of  one  who  did  not  love 
the  creatures  enough  to  be  anxious  about  them.     I 


314  THERE    AND    BACK. 


don't  think  you  can  prove  anything  that  is  worth 
being- anxious  about." 

"Then  why  do  you  believe  it.?  "  asked  Barbara, 
influenced  by  the  talk  of  the  century. 

"  Because  I  can"  answ^ered  Wingfold.  "To  be- 
lieve and  to  be  able  to  prove,  have  little  or  nothing 
to  do  with  each  other.  To  believe  and  to  convince 
have  much  to  do  with  each  other." 

"  But,"  persisted  Barbara,  with  Richard  in  her  mind, 
"  how  are  you  to  be  sure  of  a  thing  you  can't  prove  .-•  " 

"  That's  a  good  question,  and  this  is  my  answer," 
said  Wingfold: — "What  you  love,  you  already 
believe  enough  to  put  it  to  the  proof  of  trial.  My  life 
is  such  a  proving  ;  and  the  proof  is  so  promising 
that  it  fills  me  with  the  happiest  hope.  To  prove 
with  your  brains  the  thing  you  love,  would  be  to 
deck  the  garments  of  salvation  with  a  useless  fringe. 
Shall  I  search  heaven  and  earth  for  proof  that  my 
wife  is  a  good  and  lovely  woman  ?  The  signs  of  it 
are  everywhere  ;  the  proofs  of  it  nowhere." 

They  walked  along  for  a  while,  side  by  side,  in 
silence.  Which  had  turned  and  gone  with  the  other 
neither  knew.  Barbara  was  beginning  already  to 
feel  that  safety  which  almost  everybody  sooner  or 
later  came  to  feel  in  Wingfold's  company — a  safety 
born  of  the  sense  that,  in  the  closest  talk,  he  never 
lay  in  .wait  for  a  victory,  but  took  his  companion,  as 
one  of  his  own  people,  into  the  end  after  which  he 
was  striving. 

"Then,"  said  Barbara  at  length,  still  thinking  of 
Richard,  "  if  you  believe  that  even  the  beasts  are 
saved,  you  must  think  it  very  bad  of  a  man  not  to 
believe  in  a  God  !  " 

"I  should  think  anyhow  that  he  didn't  care  much 


WINGFOLD    AND    BARBARA.  3  I  5 

about  the  beasts — that  he  hadn't  a  heart  big-  enough 
to  take  the  beasts  in  !  " 

"But  he  couldn't,  you  know,  if  he  didn't  believe 
in  God  !  " 

"I  understand;  only,  if  he  loved  the  poor  beasts 
very  much,  and  thought  what  a  bad  time  they  have 
of  it  in  the  world,  1  don't  know  how  he  could  help 
hoping,  at  least,  that  there  was  a  God  somewhere 
who  would  somehow  make  up  to  them  for  it  all !  For 
my  own  part  I  don't  know  how  to  be  content  except 
the  beasts  themselves,  when  it  is  all  over  and  the 
good  time  come,  are  able  to  say,  'After  all,  it  is  well 
worth  it,  bad  as  it  was  !  ' " 

"But  what  if  it  was  just  that  suffering  that  made 
the  man  think  there  could  not  be  a  God,  or  he  would 
put  a  stop  to  it  ?  " 

"That  looks  to  me  very  close  to  believing  in  God." 

"  How  do  you  make  that  out .?  " 

"If  a  man  believed  in  a  God  that  did  not  heed  the 
suffering  of  the  creation,  one  who  made  men  and 
women  and  beasts  knowing  that  they  must  suffer, 
and  suffer  only — and  went  on  believing  so  however 
you  set  him  thinking  about  it,  I  should  say  to  him, 
'  You  believe  in  a  devil,  and  so  are  in  the  way  to  be- 
come a  devil  yourself.'  A  thousand  times  rather 
would  I  believe  that  there  was  no  God,  and  that  the 
misery  came  by  chance  from  which  there  was  no 
escape.  What  I  do  believe  is  that  there  is  a  God  who 
is  even  now  doing  his  best  to  take  all  men  and  all 
beasts  out  of  the  misery  in  which  they  find  them- 
selves." 

"But  why  did  he  let  them  come  into  it .? " 

"That  the  God  will  tell  them,  to  their  satisfaction, 
so  soon  as  ever  they  shall  have  become  capable  of 


31  6  THERE    AND    BACK. 


understanding  it.  There  must  be  things  so  entirely 
beyond  our  capacity,  that  we  cannot  now  see  enough 
of  them  to  be  able  even  to  say  that  they  are  incom- 
prehensible. There  must  be  millions  of  truths  that 
have  not  yet  risen  above  the  horizon  of  what  we  call 
the  finite." 

'•'  Then  you  would  not  think  a  person  so  very,  very 
wicked  for  not  believing  in  a  God  ?  " 

"  That  depends  on  the  sort  of  God  he  fancied  him- 
self asked  to  believe  in.  Would  you  call  a  Greek 
philosopher  wicked  for  not  believing  in  Mercury  or 
Venus?  If  a  man  had  the  same  notion  of  God  that 
I  have,  or  anything  like  it,  and  did  not  at  least  desire 
that  there  might  be  such  a  God,  then  I  confess  I 
should  have  difficulty  in  understanding  how  he  could 
be  good.  But  the  God  offered  him  might  not  be 
worth  believing  in,  might  even  be  such  that  it  was  a 
virtuous  act  to  refuse  to  believe  in  him." 

"One  thing  more,  Mr.  Wingfold — and  you  must 
not  think  I  am  arguing  against  you  or  against  God, 
for  if  I  thought  there  was  no  God,  I  should  just  take 
poison  : — tell  me,  mightn't  a  man  think  the  idea  of 
such  a  God  as  you  believe  in  too  good  to  be  true?  " 

"I  should  need  to  know  something  of  his  history 
rightly  to  understand  that.  Why  should  he  be  able 
to  think  anything  too  good  to  be  true.?-  Why  should 
a  thing  not  be  true  because  it  was  good  ?  It  seems 
to  me,  if  a  thing  be  bad,  it  cannot  possibly  be  true. 
If  you  say  the  thing  is,  I  answer  it  exists  because  of 
something  under  the  badness.  Badness  by  itself  can 
have  no  life  in  it.  But  if  the  man  really  thought  as  you 
suggest,  I  would  say  to  him,  'You  cannot  A;«oz£^  such 
a  being  does  not  exist :  is  it  possible  you  should  be 
content  that  such  a  being  should  not  exist?     If  such 


WINGFOLD  AND  BARBARA.  317 

a  being  did  exist,  would  you  be  content  never  to  find 
him,  but  to  go  on  forever  and  ever  saying.  He  ca?ii 
be!  He  can' I  be  !  He's  so  good  he  can  I  be!  Suppos- 
ing you  find  one  day  that  there  he  is,  will  your  de- 
fence before  him  be  satisfactory  to  yourself:  "There 
he  is  after  all,  but  he  was  too  good  to  believe  in,  there- 
fore I  did  not  try  to  find  him"?  Will  you  say  to 
him — "  I/you  had  not  been  so  good,  i/you  had  been 
a  little  less  good,  a  little  worse,  Just  a  trifle  bad,  I  could 
and  would  have  believed  in  you  p"  '  " 

"  But  if  the  man  could  not  believe  there  was  any 
such  being,  how  could  he  have  heart  to  look  for 
him  ?  " 

"  If  he  believed  the  idea  of  him  so  good,  yet  did 
not  desire  such  a  being  enough  to  wish  that  he 
might  be,  enough  to  feel  it  worth  his  while  to  cry 
out,  in  some  fashion  or  other,  after  him,  then  I 
could  not  help  suspecting  something  wrong  in  his 
M'ill,  or  his  moral  nature  somewhere  ;  or,  perhaps, 
that  the  words  he  spoke  were  but  words,  and  that 
he  did  not  really  and  truly  feel  that  the  idea  of  such 
a  God  was  too  good  to  be  true.  In  any  such  case 
his  maker  would  not  have  cause  to  be  satisfied  with 
him.  And  if  his  maker  was  not  satisfied  with  what 
he  had  made,  do  you  think  the  man  made  would 
have  cause  to  be  satisfied  with  himself.?" 

' '  But  if  he  was  made  so  ?  " 

"Then  no  good  being,  not  to  say  a  faithful 
creator,  would  blame  him  for  what  he  could  not 
help.  If  the  God  had  made  his  creature  incapable 
of  knowing  him,  then  of  course  the  creature  would 
not  feel  that  he  needed  to  know  him.  He  would  be 
where  we   generally   imagine  the   lower   animals — 


31  8  THERE    AND    BACK. 


unable,  therefore  not  caring  to  know  who  made 
him." 

"  But  is  not  that  just  the  point  ?  A  man  may  say 
truly,  'I  don't  feel  1  want  to  know  anything  about 
God  ;  I  do  not  believe  I  am  made  to  understand  him; 
I  take  no  interest  in  the  thought  of  a  God  ' !  " 

"Before  I  could  answer  you  concerning  such  a 
man,  I  should  want  to  know  whether  he  had  not 
been  doing  as  he  knew  he  ought  not  to  do,  living  as 
he  knew  he  ought  not  to  live,  and  spoiling  himself, 
so  spoiling  the  thing  that  God  had  made  that, 
although  naturally  he  would  like  to  know  about 
God,  yet  now,  through  having  by  wrong-doing  in- 
jured his  deepest  faculty  of  understanding,  he  did 
not  care  to  know  anything  concerning  him." 

"  What  could  be  done  for  such  a  man  ? " 

"God  knows — God  does  know.  I  think  he  will 
make  his  very  life  a  terrible  burden,  so  that  for  pure 
misery  he  will  cry  to  him." 

"But  suppose  he  was  a  man  who  tried  to  do 
right,  who  tried  to  help  his  neighbor,  who  was  at 
least  so  far  a  good  man  as  to  deny  the  God  that  most 
people  seem  to  believe  in — what  would  you  say 
then  .?  " 

"  I  would  say,  '  Have  patience.  If  there  be  a  good 
God,  he  cannot  be  altogether  dissatistied  with  such  a 
man.  Of  course  it  is  something  wanting  that  makes 
him  like  that,  and  it  may  be  he  is  to  blame,  or  it 
may  be  he  can't  help  it :  I  do  not  know  when  any 
man  has  arrived  at  the  point  of  development  at 
which  he  is  capable  of  believing  in  God  :  the  child 
of  a  savage  may  be  capable,  and  a  gray-haired  man 
of  science  incapable.  If  such  a  man  says,  '  The 
question  of  a  God  is  not  interesting  to  me,'  I  believe 


WINGFOLD  AND  BARBARA. 


319 


him ;  but,  if  he  be  such  a  man  as  you  have  last 
described,  I  believe  also  that,  as  God  is  taking  care 
of  him  who  is  the  God  of  patience,  the  time  must 
come  vi^hen  something  will  make  him  \Vant  to  know 
whether  there  be  a  God,  and  whether  he  cannot  get 
near  him,  so  as  to  be  near  him.'  I  would  say,  '  He 
is  in  God's  school ;  don't  be  too  much  troubled 
about  him,  as  if  God  might  overlook  and  forget 
him.  He  will  see  to  all  that  concerns  him.  He  has 
made  him,  and  he  loves  him,  and  he  is  doing  and 
will  do  his  very  best  for  him.' " 

"Oh,  I  am  so  glad  to  hear  you  speak  like  that  !  " 
-cried  Barbara.  "I  didn't  know  clergymen  were 
like  that !  I'm  sure  they  don't  talk  like  that  in  the 
pulpit !  " 

"Weil,  you  know  a  man  can't  just  chat  with  his 
people  in  the  pulpit  as  he  may  when  he  has  one 
alone  to  himself  !  For,  you  see,  there  are  hundreds 
there,  and  they  are  all  very  different,  and  that  must 
make  a  difference  in  the  way  he  can  talk  to  them. 
There  are  multitudes  who  could  not  understand  a 
word  of  what  we  have  been  saying  to  each  other  ! 
But  if  a  clergyman  says  anything  in  the  pulpit  that 
differs  in  essence  from  what  he  says  out  of  it,  he  is  a 
false  prophet,  and  has  no  business  anywhere  but  in 
the  realm  of  falsehood." 

"Why  is  he  in  the  church,  then  ? " 

"If  there  be  any  such  man  in  the  church  of  Eng- 
land, we  have  to  ask  first  how  he  got  into  it.  I 
used  to  think  the  bishop  who  ordained  him  must  be 
to  blame  for  letting  such  a  man  in.  But  I  am  told 
the  bishops  haven't  the  power  to  keep  out  any  one 
who  passes  their  examination,  provided  he  is  morally 
decent ;  and  if  that  be  true,  I  don't  know  what  is  to 


320  THERE    AND    BACK. 


be  done.  What  I  know  is,  that  I  have  enough  to  do 
with  my  parish,  and  that  to  mind  my  work  is  the 
best  I  can  do  to  set  the  church  right." 

"I  suppose  the  bishops — some  of  them  at  least — 
would  say,  '  If  we  do  not  take  the  men  we  can  get, 
how  is  the  work  of  the  church  to  go  on?'" 

"  I  presume  that  even  such  bishops  would  allow 
that  the  business  of  the  church  is  to  teach  men  about 
God  :  that  they  cannot  get  men  who  know  God,  is 
a  bad  argument  for  employing  men  who  do  not 
know  him  to  teach  others  about  him.  It  is  founded 
on  utter  distrust  of  God.  I  believe  the  only  way  to 
set  the  thing  right  is  to  refuse  the  bad  that  there  may 
be  room  for  God  to  send  the  good.  By  admitting 
the  false  they  block  the  way  for  the  true.  But  the 
poor  bishops  have  great  difficulties.  I  am  glad  I  am 
not  a  bishop  !  My  parish  is  nearly  too  much  for  me 
sometimes  !  " 

Barbara  could  not  help  thinking  how  her  mother 
alone  had  been  almost  too  much  for  him. 

Their  talk  the  rest  of  the  way  was  lighter  and 
more  general  ;  and  to  her  great  joy  Barbara  dis- 
covered that  the  clergyman  loved  books  the  same 
way  the  bookbinder  loved  them.  But  she  did  not 
mention  Richard. 

The  parson  took  leave  of  her  at  a  convenient  issue 
from  the  park.  But  before  she  had  gone  many  steps 
he  came  running  after  her  and  said — 

"By  the  way,  Miss  Wylder,  here  are  some  verses 
that  may  please  you  !  We  were  talking  about  our 
hopes  for  the  animals  !  I  heard  the  story  they  are 
founded  on  the  other  day  from  my  friend  the  dissent- 
ing minister  of  the  village.  The  little  daugliter  of 
Dr.    Doddridge,  the  celebrated  theologian,  was  over- 


WINGFOLD    AND    BARBARA.  32  I 

heard  asking  the  dog  if  he  knew  who  made  hun. 
Receiving  no  reply,  she  said  what  you  will  find 
written  there  as  the  text  of  the  poem." 

He  put  a  paper  in  her  hand,  and  left  her.     She 
opened  it,  and  found  what  follows  : — 

DR.  DODDRIDGE'S  DOG. 
"  What !  you   Dr.   Doddridge's  dog,  and  not  know  who  made 


you! 


My  little  dog,  who  blessed  you 

With  such  white  toothy-pegs  ? 
And  who  was  it  that  dressed  you 

In  such  a  lot  of  legs  ? 

I'm  sure  he  never  told  you 

Not  to  speak  when  spoken  to  ! 
But  it's  not  for  me  to  scold  you  : — 

Dogs  bark,  and  pussies  mew  ! 

I'll  tell  you,  little  brother, 

In  case  you  do  not  know  : — 
One  only,  not  another. 

Could  make  us  two  just  so. 

You  love  me? — Quiet ! — I'm  proving  ! — ■ 

It  must  be  God  above 
That  filled  those  eyes  with  loving  ! 

He  was  the  first  to  love ! 

One  day  he'll  stop  all  sadness — 

Hark  to  the  nightingale  ! 
Oh,  blessed  God  of  gladness  ! — 

Come,  doggie,  wag  your  tail ! 

That's  "  Thank  you,  God  !  " — He  gave  you 

Of  life  this  little  taste  ; 
And  with  more  life  he'll  save  you. 

Not  let  you  go  to  waste  ! 
21 


THERE    AND    BACK. 


So  we'll  live  on  together, 

And  share  our  bite  and  sup  ; 
Until  he  says,  "  Come  hither," — 

And  lifts  us  both  high  up  ! 

Barbara  was  so  much  pleased  with  the  verses  that 
she  thought  them  a  great  deal  better  than  they  were. 

Wingfold  walked  home  thinking  how,  in  his  dull 
parish,  where  so  few  seemed  to  care  whether  they 
were  going  back  to  be  monkeys  or  on  to  be  men,  he 
had  yet  found  two  such  interesting  young  people  as 
Richard  and  Barbara. 

He  had  come  upon  Richard  again  at  his  grand- 
father's, had  had  a  little  more  talk  with  him,  and  had 
found  him  not  so  far  from  the  kingdom  of  heaven 
but  that  he  cared  to  deny  a  false  god  ;  and  he  had 
•just  discovered  in  Barbara,  whoso  seldom  went  to 
church  and  who  came  of  such  strange  parents,  one 
in  whom  the  love  of  God  was  not  merely  innate,  but 
keenly  alive.  The  heart  of  the  one  recoiled  from  a 
God  that  was  not ;  the  heart  of  the  other  was  drawn 
to  a  God  of  whom  she  knew  little  :  were  not  the  two 
upon  converging  tracks.?  What  to  most  clergymen 
would  have  seemed  the  depth  of  a  winter  of  unbelief, 
seemed  to  Wingfold  a  springtime  full  of  the  sounds 
of  the  rising  sap. 

"What  man,"  he  said  to  himself,  "knowing  the 
care  that  some  men  have  of  their  fellow-men,  even 
to  the  spending  of  themselves  for  them,  can  doubt 
that,  loving  the  children,  they  must  one  day  love  the 
father  !  Who  more  welcome  to  the  heart  of  the 
eternal  Father  than  the  man  who  loves  his  brother, 
whom  also  the  unchanging  Father  loves  !  " 

Personally,  I  find  the  whole  matter- of  religious 
teaching  and  observance  in  general  a  very  dull  busi- 


WINGFOLD  AND  BARBARA.  323 

ness — as  dull  as  most  secular  teaching.  If  salvation 
is  anything  like  what  are  commonly  considered  its 
meafts,  it  is  to  me  a  consummation  devoutly  to  be 
deprecated.  But  no  one  ever  found  Wingfold  dull. 
For  one  thing  he  scarcely  thought  about  the  church, 
and  never  mistook  it  for  the  kingdom  of  God.  Its 
worldly  affairs  gave  him  no  concern,  and  party- 
spirit  was  loathsome  to  him  as  the  very  antichrist. 
He  was  a  servant  of  the  church  universal,  of  all  that 
believed  or  ever  would  believe  in  the  Lord  Christ, 
therefore  of  all  men,  of  the  whole  universe — and  first, 
of  every  man,  woman,  and  child  in  his  own  parish. 
But  though  he  was  the  servant  of  the  boundless 
church,  no  church  was  his  master.  He  had  no 
master  but  the  one  Lord  of  life.  Therefore  the  so- 
called  prosperity  of  the  church  did  not  interest  him. 
He  knew  that  the  Master  works  from  within  outward, 
and  believed  no  danger  possible  to  the  church,  ex- 
cept from  such  of  its  nominal  pastors  as  know  nothing 
of  the  life  that  works  leavening  from  within.  The 
will  of  God  was  all  Wingfold  cared  about,  and  if  the 
church  was  not  content  with  that,  the  church  was 
nothing  to  him,  and  might  do  to  him  as  it  would. 
He  did  not  spend  his  life  for  the  people  because  he 
was  a  parson,  but  he  was  a  parson  because  the  church 
of  England  gave  him  facilities  for  spending  his  life 
for  the  people.  He  gave  himself  altogether  to  the 
Lord,  and  therefore  to  his  people.  He  believed  in 
Jesus  Christ  as  the  everyday  life  of  the  world,  whose 
presence  is  just  as  needful  in  bank,  or  shop,  or  house 
of  lords,  as  at  what  so  many  of  the  clergy  call  the  altar. 
When  the  Lord  is  known  as  the  heart  of  every  joy, 
as  well  as  the  refuge  from  every  sorrow,  then  the 
altar  will  be  known  for  what  it  is — an  ecclesiastical 


324  THERE    AND    BACK. 

antique.  The  Father  permitted  but  never  ordained 
sacrifice  ;  in  tenderness  to  his  children  he  ordered 
the  ways  of  their  unbelieving  belief.  So  at  least 
thought  and  said  Wingfold,  and  if  he  did  not  say  so 
in  the  pulpit,  it  was  not  lest  his  fellows  should  regard 
him  as  a  traitor,  but  because  so  few  of  his  people 
would  understand.  He  would  spend  no  strength  in 
trying  to  shore  up  the  church  ;  he  sent  his  life-blood 
through  its  veins,  and  his  appeal  to  the  Living  One, 
for  whose  judgment  he  waited. 

The  world  would  not  perish  if  what  is  called  the 
church  did  go  to  pieces  ;  a  truer  church,  for  there 
might  well  be  a  truer,  would  arise  out  of  her  ruins. 
But  let  no  one  seek  to  destroy  ;  let  him  that  builds 
only  take  heed  that  he  build  with  gold  and  silver  and 
precious  stones,  not  with  wood  and  hay  and  stubble  ! 
If  the  church  were  so  built,  who  could  harm  it !  if  it 
were  not  in  part  so  built,  it  would  be  as  little  worth 
pulling  down  as  letting  stand.  There  is  in  it  a  far 
deeper  and  better  vitality  than  its  blatant  supporters 
will  be  able  to  ruin  by  their  advocacy,  or  the  enviers 
of  its  valueless  social  position  by  their  assaults  upon 
that  position. 

Wingfold  never  thought  of  associating  the  anxiety 
of  the  heiress  with  the  unbelief  of  the  bookbinder. 
He  laughed  a  laugh  of  delight  when  afterward  he 
learned  their  relation  to  each  other. 

The  next  Sunday,  Barbara  was  at  church,  and 
never  afterward  willingly  missed  going.  She  sought 
the  friendship  of  Mrg.  Wingfold,  and  found  at  last  a 
woman  to  whom  she  could  heartily  look  up.  She 
found  in  her  also  a  clergyman's  wife  who  understood 
her  husband — not  because  he  was  small-minded,  but 
because  she  was  large-hearted — and  fell  in  thoroughly 


WINGFOLD  AND  BARBARA. 


325 


with  his  modes  of  teaching-  his  people,  as  well  as  his 
objects  in  regard  to  them.  She  never  sought  to 
make  one  in  the  parish  a  churchman,  but  tried  to 
make  every  one  she  had  to  do  with  a  scholar  of 
Christ,  a  child  to  his  Father  in  heaven. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

THE  SHOEING  OF  MISS    BROWN. 

Two  days  after,  on  a  lovely  autumn  evening^, 
Barbara  rode  Miss  Brown  across  the  fields,  avoiding 
the  hard  road  even  more  carefully  than  usual.  For 
Miss  Brown,  as  I  have  said,  was  in  want  of  shoes, 
and  Barbara  herself  was  to  have  a  hand  in  putting 
them  on. 

The  red-faced,  white-whiskered,  jolly  old  Simon 
stood  at  the  smithy  door  to  receive  her  :  he  had  been 
watching  for  her,  and  had  heard  the  gentle  trot  over 
the  few  yards  of  road  that  brought  her  in  sight.  With 
a  merry  greeting  he  helped  her  down  from  the  great 
mare.  It  was  but  the  sense  that  his  blackness  was 
not  ingrain  that  kept  him  from  taking  her  in  his 
arms  like  a  child,  and  lifting  her  down — ^^so  small 
was  she,  and  so  friendly  and  childlike.  .She  would 
have  shaken  hands  with  him,  but  he  would  not  with 
her :  it  would  make  her  glove,  he  said,  as  black  as 
his  apron.  Barbara  pulled  off  her  glove,  and  gave 
him  her  dainty  little  hand,  which  the  blacksmith  took 
at  once,  being  too  much  of  a  gentleman  not  to  know 
where  respect  becomes  rudeness.  He  clasped  the 
lovely  loan  with  the  sturdy  reverence  of  his  true  old 
heart,  saying  her  hand  should  pay  her  footing  in  the 
trade. 

"Lord,  miss,  ain't  I  proud  to  make  a  smith  of 
you  ! "  he  said.      "  Only  you  must  do  nothing  but 


THE    SHOEING    OF    MISS    BROWN.  327 

shoe !  I  can't  let  you  spoil  your  hands  !  You 
can  keep  Miss  Brown  shod  without  doing  that ! — 
Here  comes  Dick  for  his  part !  He  might  have  left 
it  to  who  taught  him  !  Did  he  think  the  old  man 
would  be  rough  with  missie  ? — I  dare  say,  now,  he's 
been  teaching  you  that  woman's  work  of  his  this 
long  time  !  " 

"Stop,  stop,  Mr.  Armour  !  "cried  Barbara.  "When 
you  see  me  shoe  Miss  Brown,  perhaps  you  won't 
care  to  talk  about  woman's  work  again  !  " 

Richard  came  up,  took  Miss  Brown  in,  and  put 
her  in  her  place.  The  smith  knew  exactly  what  sort 
and  size  of  shoes  she  wanted,  and  had  them  already 
so  far  finished  that  but  a  touch  or  so  was  necessary 
to  make  them  an  absolute  fit.  Barbara  tucked  up 
her  skirt,  and  secured  it  with  her  belt.  But  this 
would  not  satisfy  Simon.  He  had  a  little  leather 
apron  ready  for  her,  and  nothing  would  serve  but 
she  must  put  it  on  to  protect  her  habit.  Till  this  was 
done  he  would  not  allow  her  to  touch  hammer  or 
nail. 

"Come,  come,  missie,"  he  said,  "  I'm  king  in  my 
own  shop,  and  you  must  do  as  I  tell  you  !  " 

Thereupon  Barbara,  who  had  stood  out  only  for 
the  fun  of  the  thing,  put  on  the  leather  apron  with 
its  large  bib,  and  set  about  her  work. 

Richard  did  not  offer  to  put  on  the  first  shoe  :  he 
believed  she  had  so  often  watched  the  operation, 
that  she  must  know  perfectly  what  to  do.  Nor  was 
he  disappointed.  She  proceeded  like  an  adept. 
Happily  Miss  Brown  was  very  good.  She  was 
neither  hungry  nor  thirsty  ;  she  had  had  just  enough 
exercise  to  make  her  willing  to  breathe  a  little  ; 
nothing  had  gone  wrong  on  the  way  to  upset  her 


320  THERE    AND    BACK. 


delicate  nerves — for  gentle  and  loving  as  she  always 
was,  she  was  apt  to  be  both  apprehensive  and  touchy  ; 
her  digestion  was  all  right,  for  she  had  had  neither 
too  much  corn  nor  too  much  grass  ;  therefore  she 
stood  quite  still,  and  if  not  exactly  full  of  faith,  was 
yet  troubled  by  no  doubt  as  to  the  ability  of  her  mis- 
tress to  put  on  her  shoes  for  her — iron  though  they 
were,  and  to  be  fastened  with  long  sharp  nails. 

Richard  was  nowise  astonished  at  Barbara's  cool- 
ness, or  her  courage,  or  the  business-like  way  in 
which  she  tucked  the  great  hoof  under  her  arm,  or 
even  at  the  accurate  aim  which  brought  the  right 
sort  of  blow  down  on  the  head  of  nail  after  nail  in 
true  line  with  its  length  ;  but  he  was  astonished  at 
the  strength  of  her  little  hand,  the  hardness  of  her 
muscles,  covered  with  just  fat  enough  to  make  form 
and  movement  alike  beautiful,  and  the  knowing  skill 
with  which  she  twisted  off  the  ends  of  the  nails  :  the 
quick  turn  necessary,  she  seemed  to  have  by  nature. 
In  her  keen  watching,  she  had  so  identified  herself 
with  the  operator,  that  perfect  insight  had  supplied 
the  place  of  active  experience,  and  seemed  almost  to 
have  waked  some  ancient  instinct  that  operated  inde- 
pendent of  consciousness.  The  mare  was  shod,  and 
well  shod,  without  any  accident  ;  and  Richard  felt  no 
anxiety  as  he  lifted  the  little  lady  to  her  back,  and 
saw  her  canter  away  as  if  she  had  been  presented 
with  fresh  feathery  wings  instead  of  only  fresh  iron 
shoes. 

He  experienced,  however,  not  a  little  disappoint- 
ment :  he  had  hoped  to  walk  a  part  of  her  way  along- 
side of  Miss  Brown.  Barbara  had  in  truth  expected 
he  would,  but  a  sudden  shyness  came  upon  her,  and 
made  her  sfart  at  speed  the  moment  she  was  in  the 


THE    SHOEING    OF    MISS    BROWN.  329 

saddle.     Simon  and  Richard  stood  looking  after  her. 

With  a  sharp  scramble  she  turned.  Richard  darted 
forward.  But  nothing  was  wrong  with  the  mare. 
She  came  at  a  quick  trot,  and  they  were  side  by  side 
in  a  moment.  Barbara  had  bethought  herself  that  it 
was  a  pity  to  get  no  more  pleasure  or  profit  out  of 
the  afternoon  than  just  a  horse-shoeing  ! 

"  She's  all  right !  "  she  cried. 

Richard  imagined  she  had  but  started  to  put  her 
handiwork  to  the  test.  They  walked  back  to  the  old 
man,  and  once  more  she  thanked  him — in  such  pretty 
fashion  as  made  him  feel  a  lord  of  the  world.  Then 
Richard  and  she  moved  away  together  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Mortgrange,  and  left  Simon  praying  God  to 
give  them  to  each  other  before  he  died. 

They  had  not  gone  far  when  it  became  Richard's 
turn  to  stop. 

"Oh,  miss,"  he  said,  "I  must  go  back!  Neither 
of  us  has  been  to  see  Alice,  and  I  haven't  for  more 
than  a  week  !  Think  of  her  lying  there,  expecting 
and  expecting,  and  no  one  coming  !  It's  just  the 
history  of  the  world  !     I  must  go  back  !  " 

He  would  not  have  said  so  much  but  that  Barbara 
sat  regarding  him  without  response  of  word  or  look, 
appearing  not  to  heed  him.      He  began  to  wonder. 

"Alice  can't  be  dead  !  "  he  thought  with  himself. 
"  She  was  pretty  well  when  I  saw  her  last  !  " 

"She  is  gone,  "said  Barbara  quietly,  and  the  thought 
just  discarded  returned  on  Richard  with  a  sickening 
clearness. 

He  stood  and  stared.  Barbara  saw  him  turn  white, 
and  understood  his  mistake — so  terrible  to  one  who 
had  no  hope  of  ever  again  seeing  a  departed  friend. 


330 


THERE    AND    BACK. 


"She  went  home  to  her  mother  yesterday,"  she 
said. 

Richard  gave  a  great  sigh  of  relief. 

"I  thought  she  was  dead  !  "  he  answered,  " — and 
I  had  not  been  so  good  to  her  as  I  might  have  been  !  " 

"  Richard,"  said  Barbara — it  was  the  first  time  she 
called  him  by  his  name — "  did  anybody  in  the  world 
ever  do  all  he  might  to  make  his  best  friends  happy.'  " 

"No,  miss,  I  don't  think  it.  There  must  always 
be  something  more  he  might  have  done." 

"Then  the  better  people  become,  the  more  lamen- 
tations, mourning,  and  woe" — the  words  had  taken 
hold  of  her  at  church  the  Sunday  before — "there 
must  always  be,  because  of  those  they  shall  never 
look  upon  again,  those  to  whom  they  shall  never  say, 
lam  sorry/  How  comes  it  that  men  are  born  into 
a  world  where  there  is  nothing  of  what  they  most 
need — consolation  for  the  one  inevitable  thing,  sor- 
row and  self-reproach  ? " 

"There  is  consolation — that  it  will  soon  be  over, 
that  we  go  to  them  !  " 

"Go  to  them  !"  cried  Barbara.  " — We  do  not 
even  go  to  look  for  them  !  We  shall  not  even  know 
that  we  would  find  them  if  we  could  !  We  shall  not 
have  even  the  consolation  of  suffering,  of  loving  on 
in  vain  !  The  whole  thing  is  the  most  wrongful  scorn, 
the  most  insulting  mockery  ! — the  laughter  of  a  devil 
at  all  that  is  noble  and  tender  ! — only  there  is  not  even 
a  devil  to  be  angry  with  and  defy  !  " 

Barbara  spoke  with  an  indignation  that  made  her 
eloquent.  Richard  gave  her  no  answer  :  there  was 
no  logic  in  what  Barbara  said — nothing  to  reply  to  ! 
Why  should  life  not  be  misery  ?  Why  should  there 
be  anyone  who  cared?     There  was  no  ground  for 


THE    SHOEING    OF    MISS    BROWN.  33 1 

thinking  there  might  be  one  !  The  proof  was  all  the 
other  way  !  The  idea  was  too  good  to  be  true  ! 
Richard  had  said  so  to  himself  a  thousand  times. 
But  was  the  world  indeed  on  such  a  grand  scale  that 
to  believe  in  anything  better  or  other  than  it  seemed, 
was  to  believe  too  much — was  to  believe  more  than, 
without  proof  which  was  not  to  be  had,  Richard 
would  care  to  believe.?  The  nature  of  the  case  grew 
clearer  to  him.  As  a  man  does  not  fear  death  while 
yet  it  seems  far  away,  so  a  man  may  not  shrink  from 
annihilation  while  yet  he  does  not  realize  what  it 
means.  To  cease  may  well  seem  nothing  to  a  man 
who  neither  loves  much,  nor  feels  the  bitterness  of 
regret  for  wrong  done,  the  gnawing  of  that  remorse 
whose  mother  is  tenderness  !  He  was  beginning  to 
understand  this. 

The  silence  grew  oppressive.  It  was  as  if  each 
was  dreaming  of  the  other  dead.  To  break  the  pain 
of  presence  without  communion,  Richard  spoke. 

"Can  you  tell  me,  miss,"  he  said,  "why  Alice 
went  away  without  letting  me  know .''  She  might 
have  done  that  !  " 

"She  had  a  good  reason,"  answered  Barbara. 

"I  can't  think  what  it  could  be  !  "  he  returned. 
"  I  never  was  so  long  without  seeing^  her  before,  but 
surely  she  could  not  be  so  much  offended  at  that  ! 
You  see,  miss,  I  knew  you  went  every  day  !  and  I 
knew  I  should  like  that  better  than  having  any  one 
else  to  come  and  see  me  !  so  I  gave  myself  no  trouble. 
I  never  thought  of  her  going  for  a  long  time  yet! 
Did  her  mother  send  her  money  ?  " 

"Not  that  I  know  of." 

"Perhaps  my  grandfather  lent  her  some!      She 


332  THERE    AND    BACK. 


couldn't  have  any  herself!  I  wonder  why  she  dis- 
likes me  so  much  1  " 

He  was  doubting  whether  she  would  have  taken 
money  from  him,  if  he  had  been  in  time  to  offer  it. 
He  did  not  like  to  ask  Barbara  if  she  had  helped  her. 
— And  then  what  was  she  to  do  when  she  got  home  ? 

Barbara  had  let  him  talk,  delighted  to  look  in  at 
the  windows  his  words  went  on  opening.  In  par- 
ticular it  pleased  and  attracted  her,  that  he  was  so 
unconscious  of  the  goodness  he  had  shown  Alice. 
Barbara  and  he  made  a  rare  conjunction  of  likeness. 
So  many  will  do  a  kindness  who  are  not  yet  capable 
of  forgetting  it  1 

Barbara  could  not  tell  him  that  Alice  was  afraid  to 
bid  him  good-bye  lest  in  her  weakness  she  should 
render  an  explanation  necessary.  She  did  not  in  the 
least  doubt  Richard  was  her  brother,  and  her  heart 
was  full  of  him.  How  often,  as  she  lay  alone,  build- 
ing her  innocent  and  not  very  wonderful  castles, 
had  she  not  imagined  herself  throwing  her  arms 
about  him,  and  kissing  him  at  her  will !— what  if  she 
should  actually  do  so  when  he  came  to  bid  her  good- 
bye 1  Then  she  would  have  to  tell  him  he  was  her 
brother,  and  so  perhaps  might  ruin  everything.  She 
must  go  without  a  word  ! 

"  She  is  far  from  disliking  you,"  said  Barbara. 

"Why  then  did  she  not  tell  mc,  that  I  might  have 
given  her  money  for  her  journey  ?  " 

"There  was  no  need  of  that,"  returned  Barbara. 
"She  is  my  sister  now,  and  a  sovereign  or  two  is 
nothing  between  us." 

"Oh,  thank  you!  thank  you,  miss!  Then  she 
will  have  a  little  over  when  she  gets  home  !  But  I 
am  afraid  it  will  be  long  before  she  is  able  to  work 


THE    SHOEING    OF    MISS    BROWN.  333 


again  !  It  would  be  of  no  use  to  tell  my  mother,  for 
somehow  she  seems  to  have  taken  a  great  dislike  to 
poor  Alice.  I  am  positive  she  does  not  deserve  it. 
My  mother  is  the  best  woman  I  know,  but  she  is 
very  stiff  when  she  takes  a  dislike.  Have  you  got 
her  address,  miss.?  Arthur  would  take  money  from 
me,  I  think,  but  I  don't  know  where  he  is.  I  was 
always  meaning  to  ask  her,  and  always  forgot." 

"I  will  see  she  has  everything  she  wants,"  an- 
swered Barbara. 

"  Bless  your  lovely  heart,  miss  !  "  exclaimed  Rich- 
ard. "But  I  fear  nothing  much  will  reach  them  so 
long  as  their  mother  is  alive.  She  eats  and  drinks 
the  flesh  and  blood  of  her  children.  Nobody  could 
help  seeing  it.  There's  Arthur,  cold  and  thin,  and 
miserable,  without  a  greatcoat  in  the  bitterest 
weather  !  and  Alice  with  hardly  flesh  enough  for 
setting  to  her  great  eyes  !  and  Mrs.  Manson  w^ell 
dressed,  and  eating  the  best  butter,  and  drinking  the 
best  bottled  stout  that  money  can  buy  !  If  only  their 
mother  was  like  mine  !  If  one  of  her  family  had  to 
starve,  she  would  claim  it  as  her  right.  Such  women 
as  Mrs.  Manson  have  no  business  to  be  mothers  ! 
Why  were  ihey  made — if  people  are  made .?  " 

"Perhaps  they  will  be  made  something  of  yet  !  " 
suggested  Barbara. 

"  If  you're  right,  miss,  and  there  be  a  God,  either 
he's  not  so  good  as  you  would  be  if  you  were  God, 
or  else  somebody  iiiterferes,  and  won't  let  him  do 
his  best." 

"Shall  I  tell  you  what  our  clergyman  said  to  me 
the  other  day  }  "  returned  Barbara. 

"Yes,  if  you  please,  miss.  I  don't  mind  wliat_yo« 
say,  because   the  God  you  would  have  me  believe  in 


334  thp:re  and  back. 


is  like  yourself;  and  if  he  be,  and  be  like  you,  he 
will  set  everything  right  as  soon  as  ever  he  can." 

"What  Mr.  Wingfold  said  was  this — that  it  was 
not  fair,  when  a  man  had  made  something  for  a 
purpose,  to  say  it  was  not  good  before  we  knew 
what  his  purpose  with  it  was.  '  I  don't  like,'  he 
said,  '  even  my  wife  to  look  at  my  verses  before 
they're  finished  !  God  can't  hide  away  his  work  till 
it  is  finished,  as  I  do  my  verses,  and  we  ought  to  take 
care  what  we  say  about  it.  God  wants  to  do  some- 
thing better  with  people  than  people  think.'  " 

"  Is  he  a  poet  .f*  "  said  Richard.  "But  when  I  think 
how  he  looked  at  the  sunrise — of  course  he  is  !  That 
man  don't  talk  a  bit  like  a  clergyman,  miss  ;  he  talks 
just  like  any  other  man — only  better  than  I  ever 
heard  man  talk  before.  I  couldn't  help  liking  him 
from  the  first,  and  wishing  I  might  meet  him  again  ! 
But  I  think  I  could  put  him  a  question  or  two  yet 
that  would  puzzle  him  !  " 

"I  don't  know,"  answered  Barbara;  "but  one 
thing  I  am  sure  of,  that,  if  you  did  puzzle  him,  he 
would  say  he  was  puzzled,  and  must  have  time  to 
think  it  over  !  " 

' '  That  is  to  behave  like  a  man  ! — and  after  all, 
clergymen  are  men,  and  there  must  be  good  men 
among  them  ! — But  do  you  think,  miss,  you  could 
get  Arthur's  address  from  Alice.?  The  office  is  not 
where  it  used  to  be." 

"  I  dare  say  I  could." 

"You  see,  miss,  I  shall  have  to  go  back  to  London." 

There  was  a  tone  and  tremble  in  his  words,  to 
which,  not  to  the  words  themselves,  Barbara  made 
reply. 


THE    SHOEING    OF    MISS    BROWN. 


335 


"Will  anyone  dare  to  say,"  she  rejoined,  "that 
we  shall  not  meet  again  ?  " 

"The  sort  of  God  you  believe  in,  miss,  would 
not  say  it,"  he  answered  ;  "  but  the  sort  of  God  my 
mother  believes  in  would.'' 

"  I  know  nothing  about  other  people's  Gods," 
rejoined  Barbara.  "Indeed,  "she  added,  "I  know 
very  little  about  my  own ;  but  I  mean  to  know 
more  :    Mr.  Wingfold  will  teach  me  !  " 

"  Take  care  he  don't  overpersuade  you,  miss.  You 
have  been  very  good  to  me,  and  I  couldn't  bear  you 
to  be  made  a  fool  of.  Only  he  can't  be  just  like  the 
rest  !  " 

"  He  will  persuade  me  of  nothing  that  doesn't 
seem  to  me  true — be  certain  of  that,  Richard.  And 
if  it  please  God  to  part  us,  I  will  pray  and  keep  on 
praying  to  him  to  let  us  meet  again.  If  I  have  been 
good  to  you,  you  have  been  much  better  to  me  !  " 

Richard  was  not  elated.  He  only  thought,  "How 
kind  of  her  !  " 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 


RICHARD  AND  VIXEN. 


Barbara  turned  her  mare  across  the  road,  and  sent 
her  at  the  hedge.  Miss  Brown  cleared  it  like  a  stag, 
and  took  a  bee-line  along  the  grass  for  Wylder  Hall. 
Richard  stood  astonished.  A  moment  before  she 
was  close  beside  him,  and  now  she  was  nearly  out 
of  his  sight !  The  angel  that  ascended  from  the  pres- 
ence of  Manoah  could  scarcely  have  more  amazed 
the  Danite.  Though  Richard  could  shoe  a  horse,  he 
could  no  more  have  stuck  to  Miss  Brown  over  that 
hedge  than  he  could  have  ascended  with  the  angel. 
He  watched  till  she  vanished,  and  then  watched  for 
her  reappearance  at  a  point  of  hope  beyond.  Only 
when  he  knew  that  distance  and  intervention  rendered 
it  impossible  he  should  see  her  more,  did  he  turn  and 
take  his  way  to  Mortgrange. 

He  was  as  much  in  love  with  Barbara  as  a  man 
could  be  who  indulged  no  hope  whatever  of  marrying 
her — who  was  not  even  tempted  to  build  the  hum- 
blest castle  for  her  in  the  air  of  possibility.  But  so  far 
was  his  love  from  causing  in  him  any  kind  of  selfish 
absorption,  that  his  heart  was  much  troubled  at  Alice's 
leaving  him  without  a  farewell.  Her  behavior  woke 
in  him  his  first  sense  of  the  inexplicable  :  he  little 
thought  of  its  being  but  the  first  visible  vapor  of  a 
mystery  that  involved  both  his  past  and  his  future. 
All  he  knew  was,  that  the  sister  of  his  friend  had,  in 
a  stormy  night  in  London,  fled  from  him  as  irom  a 


RICHARD    AND    VIXEN.  ^^ 

wild  beast ;  and  that  now,  on  a  quiet  morning  in  the 
country,  she  was  gone  from  his  grandfather's  house 
without  a  word  of  farewell  to  him  who  had  called  him 
to  her  aid. 

"There  must  be  a  reason  for  everything,"  he  said 
to  himself,  "  but  some  reasons  are  hard  to  find  !  " 

The  next  day  in  the  forenoon,  Richard  was  busy  as 
usual  in  the  library.  Doors  and  windows  were  shut 
against  draughts,  for  he  was  working  with  gold-leaf 
on  the  tooling  of  an  ancient  binding.  A  door  opened, 
and  in  came  the  goblin  of  the  house.  Perceiving 
what  Richard  was  about,  she  came  bounding,  lithe 
as  a  cat,  and  making  a  wilful  wind  with  her  pinafore, 
blew  away  the  leaf  he  was  dividing  on  the  cushion, 
and  knocked  a  book  of  gold-leaf  to  the  floor.  The 
book-mender  felt  very  angry,  but  put  an  extra  guard 
on  himself,  caught  her  in  a  firm  grasp,  and  proceeded 
to  expel  her.  She  threw  herself  on  the  floor,  and 
began  to  scream.  Richard  took  her  up,  laid  her  down 
in  the  hall,  and  closed  and  locked  the  door  by  which 
she  had  entered.  Vixen  lay  where  he  laid  her,  and 
went  on  screaming.  By  and  by  her  screaming 
ceased,  and  a  iew  moments  after,  the  handle  of  the 
door  was  tried.  Richard  took  no  notice.  Then  came 
a  peremptory  knock.  Richard  called  out,  "  Who's 
there .?  "  but  no  answer  came  except  a  repetition  of 
the  knock,  to  which  he  paid  no  heed.  The  knock 
was  twice  repeated,  but  Richard  went  on  with  his 
work,  and  gave  no  sign.  Suddenly  another  door, 
which  he  had  not  thought  of  securing,  burst  open,  and 
in  sailed  Miss  Malliver,  the  governess,  tall  and  slight, 
with  the  dignity  she  put  on  for  her  inferiors,  to  whom 
she  was  as  insolent  as  to  those  above  her  she  was 
cringing.      True    superiority    she  was  incapable  of 


338  THERE    AND    BACK, 


perceiving  ;  real  inferiority  would  have  been  hard  to 
find. 

"  Man  !  "  she  exclaimed,  the  moment  her  wrath 
would  allow  her  to  speak,  "what  do  you  mean  by 
your  insolence  ? " 

"  If  you  allude  to  my  putting  the  child  out  of  the 
room,"  answered  Richard,  "  I  mean  that  she  is  rude, 
and  that  I  will  not  be  annoyed  with  her  !  " 

"  You  shall  be  turned  out  of  the  house  !" 

"In  the  meantime,"  rejoined  Richard,  who  had 
a  not  unnatural  repugnance  to  Miss  Malliver,  and 
was  now  thoroughly  angry,  "  I  will  turn  you  too  out 
of  the  room,  and  for  the  same  reason." 

Richard  felt,  with  every  true  gentleman,  that  the 
workman  has  a  claim  to  politeness  as  real  as  that  of 
any  gentleman.  The  man  who  cannot  see  it  is  a 
cad. 

"I  dare  you  !  "  cried  Miss  Malliver,  giving  therein 
to  her  innate  coarseness. 

Before  he  blames  Richard,  my  reader  must  think 
how  he  might  himself  have  behaved,  had  he  been 
brought  up  among  the  people.  I  would  have  him 
reflect  also  that  the  woman  who  presumes  on  her  sex, 
undermines  its  claim.  Richard  laid  the  tool  he  was 
using  quietly  aside,  and  approached  her  deliberately. 
Trusting,  like  King  Claudius,  in  the  divinity  that 
hedged  her,  and  not  believing  he  would  presume  to 
touch  her,  the  woman  kept  her  ground  defiantly  until 
his  hands  were  on  the  point  of  seizing  her.  Then 
she  uttered  a  shriek,  and  fled.  Richard  closed  the 
door  behind  her,  made  it  also  fast,  and  returned  to 
his  work. 

But  he  was  not  to  be  left  in  peace.  Another  hand 
came  to  the  door,  and  a  voice  demanding  entrance 


RICHARD    AND    VIXEN.  339 

followed  the  foiled  attempt  to  open  it.  He  recog- 
nized the  voice  as  Lady  Ann's,  and  made  haste  to 
admit  her.  But  her  ladyship  stood  motionless  on  the 
door-mat,  erect  and  cool.  Anger  itself  could  not 
M^arm  her,  for  that  she  viras  angry  was  plain  only 
from  the  steely  sparkle  in  her  gray  eyes. 

"You  forget  yourself!  You  must  leave  the 
house  !  "  she  said. 

"  I  have  done  nothing,  my  lady,"  answered  Rich- 
ard, "but  what  it  was  necess.ary  to  do.  I  did  not 
hurt  the  child  in  the  least." 

"That  is  not  the  point.  You  must  leave  the 
house." 

"I  should  at  once  obey  you,  my  lady,"  rejoined 
Richard,  "but  I  am  not  at  liberty  to  do  so.  Sir 
Wilton  has  the  command  of  my  time  till  the  month 
of  ]\Iay.  I  am  bound  to  be  at  his  orders,  whether  I 
choose  or  not,  except  he  tell  me  to  go." 

Lady  Ann  stood  speechless,  and  stared  at  him 
with  her  icicle-eyes.  Richard  turned  away  to  his 
work.  Lady  Ann  entered,  and  shut  the  door  behind 
her.  Richard  would  have  had  to  search  long  to  dis- 
cover the  cause  of  her  peculiar  behavior.  It  was 
this  :  in  his  anger,  he  had  flashed  on  her  a  look 
which  she  knew  but  could  not  identify,  and  which 
somehow  frightened  her.  She  must  shape  and  iden- 
tify the  reminiscence  !  Familiar  enough  with  the 
expression  of  her  husband's  face  when  he  was  out  of 
temper,  she  had  yet  failed  to  identify  with  it  that  look 
on  the  face  of  his  son.  Had  she  known  Richard's 
mother,  she  would  probably  have  recognized  him  at 
once  ;  for  there  was  more  of  her  as  well  as  of  his 
father  in  his  expression  when  he  was  angry  :  there 
must   have   been  a  good    many    wrathful  passages 


340  THERE    AND    BACK. 


between  the  two  !  In  the  face  of  their  child  the  ex- 
pression of  the  mother  so  modified  that  of  the  father, 
that  Lady  Ann  could  not  isolate  and  verify  it.  She 
must  therefore  goon  talking  to  him,  keeping  to  the 
point,  but  not  pushing  it  so  as  to  bring  the  interview 
to  an  end  too  speedily  for  her  purpose  ! 

"Mr.  , — I  don't  know  your  name,"  she  re- 
sumed, " — no  respectable  house  could  harbor  such 
behavior.  I  grant  Sir  Wilton  is  partly  to  blame,  for 
he  ought  not  to  have  allowed  the  library  to  be  turned 
into  a  workshop.  That  however  makes  no  differ- 
ence.     This  kiiid  of  thing  cannot  continue  !  " 

Richard  went  on  with  his  work,  and  made  no  reply. 
Lady  Ann  looked  in  vain  for  a  revival  of  the  expres- 
sion that  had  struck  her.  For  a  moment  she  thought 
of  summoning  Miss  Malliver  to  do  what  she  would 
not  condescend  to  do  herself,  namely,  enrage  him, 
that  she  might  have  another  chance  with  the  sug- 
gested likeness  ;  but  something  warned  her  not  to 
risk — she  did  not  know  what.  At  the  same  time  the 
resemblance  might  be  to  no  person  at  all,  but  to  some 
animal,  or  even,  perhaps,  some  piece  of  furniture  or 
china  ! 

"You  must  not  imagine  yourself  of  importance 
in  the  house,"  she  resumed,  "  because  a  friend  of 
the  family  happens  to  be  interested  in  the  kind  of 
thing  you  do — very  neatly,  I  allow,  but " 

She  stopped  short.  At  this  allusion  to  Barbara. 
Richard's  rage  boiled  up  with  the  swelling  heave  in 
a  full  caldron  on  a  great  furnace.  Lady  Ann  turned 
pale,  pale  even  for  her,  murmured  something  inaudi- 
ble, put  her  hand  to  her  forehead,  and  left  the 
room. 

Richard's  wrath  fell.      He  thought  with  himself, 


RICHARD    AND    VIXEN.  34 1 

"I  have  frightened  her!  Perhaps  they  will  leave 
me  alone  now  !  "  He  closed  the  door  she  had  left 
open  behind  her,  unlocked  the  other,  and  fell  once 
more  to  his  work. 

For  the  time  the  disturbance  was  over.  When 
Miss  Malliver  and  Vixen,  lingering  near,  saw  Lady- 
Ann  walk  past,  holding  her  hand  to  her  forehead, 
they  also  turned  pale  with  fear  :  what  a  terrible  man 
he  must  be  who  had  silenced  my  lady  in  her  own 
house,  and  had  his  own  way  with  her  !  Vixen  dared 
not  go  near  him  again  for  a  long  time. 

But  Lady  Ann's  perturbation  did  not  last.  She 
said  to  herself  that  she  was  a  fool  to  imagine  such 
an  absurdity.  She  remembered  to  have  heard, 
though  at  the  time  it  had  no  interest  for  her,  that  the 
bookbinder  had  relatives  in  the  neighborhood.  Such 
a  likeness  might  meet  her  at  any  turn  :  the  kind  of 
thing  was  of  constant  occurrence  about  estates  !  It 
improved  the  breed  of  the  lower  orders,  and  was  no 
business  of  hers  !  A  child  had  certainly  been  lost, 
with  a  claim  to  the  succession  ;  but  was  she  there- 
fore to  be  appalled  at  every  resemblance  to  her 
husband  that  happened  to  turn  up  !  As  to  that  par- 
ticular child,  she  would  not  believe  that  he  was  alive  ! 
He  could  not  be  !  That,  after  so  many  years,  she, 
an  earl's  daughter,  would  have  to  give  way  to  a 
woman  lower  than  a  peasant,  was  preposterous  ! 

It  must  be  remembered  that  she  knew  nothing  of 
the  relation  of  the  nurse  to  the  child  she  had  stolen, 
knew  of  no  source  whence  light  could  fall  upon  their 
disappearance.  Old  Simon  himself  knew  nothing  of 
the  affair  till  years  after  the  feeble  search  for  the  child 
had  ceased.  Lady  Ann  had  a  strong  hope  that  his 
birth  had  not  been  registered  :  she  had  searched  for 


34  2  THERE    AND    BACK. 

it — with  what  object  I  will  not  speculate,  buthaduot 
found  it.  She  was  capable  of  a  good  deal  in  some 
directions,  for  she  came  of  as  low  a  breed  as  her  hus- 
band, with  moref  cunning,  and  less  open  defiance  in 
it;  there  was  not  much  she  would  have  blenched  at, 
with  society  on  her  side,  and  a  good  chance  of  foil- 
ing in  safety  the  low-born  woman  whose  child  had 
stood  between  her  heritage  and  her  hopes.  It  might 
be  wrong,  but  it  would  be  for  the  sake  of  right ! 
Ought  not  imposture  to  be  frustrated,  however  legal- 
ized? Would  it  not  be  both  intrusion  and  imposture 
for  a  man  of  low  origin  to  possess  the  ancient  lands 
of  Mortgrange,  ousting  a  child  of  her  family,  born  of 
her  person,  and  bred  in  the  brightest  beams  of  the 
sun  social  ? 

I  can  well  imagine  her  coming  to  reason  thus.  It 
may  not  seem  natural  that  an  angry  look  on  the  face 
of  a  man  of  whom  she  knew  nothing  should  have 
thus  set  in  action  so  important  a  train  of  thought,  but 
to  those  who  live  in  fear  of  an  explosion,  even  the 
faintest  rumbling  is  a  sign  of  danger.  Lady  Ann 
had  lived  so  long  in  dread  lest  the  missing  heir 
appear  to  claim  his  own  that  even  the  look  of  anger 
on  the  young  bookbinder's  face  became  for  her  the 
Lestrange  look  and  troubled  her  accordingly.  It 
might  be  a  false  conjecture  but  for  the  present,  un- 
necessary as  she  was  determined  to  think  it,  she  yet 
resolved  to  do  all  that  was  left  her  to  do  ;  she  would 
watch  ;  and  while  she  watched,  would  take  care  that 
the  young  man  was  subjected  to  no  annoyance,  lest 
in  his  wrath  his  countenance  should  suggest  to 
another,  as  to  herself,  the  question  of  his  origin  ! 

Thus  it  came  that  Richard  heard  nothing  more  of 
his  threatened  expulsion  from  Mortgrange, 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 
Barbara's  duty. 

The  same  afternoon  appeared  Barbara — as  none 
knew  when  she  mijjht  not  appear — before  the  front 
windows  of  the  house,  perched  upon  her  huge  yet 
gracious  Miss  Brown.  Arthur  was  in  general  upon 
the  outlook  for  her,  but  to-day  he  was  not,  being  more 
vexed  with  her  than  usual  for  withholding  the  en- 
couragement he  desired,  and  indeed  imagined  he 
deserved — not  exactly  from  vanity,  yet  no  less  from 
an  overweening  sense  of  his  own  worth. 

It  is  an  odd  delusion  to  which  young  men  are  sub- 
ject, that,  because  they  admire,  perhaps  even  love  a 
woman,  they  have  a  claim  on  her  love.  Arthur  was 
confident  that  he  loved  Barbara  as  never  man  had 
loved,  as  never  woman  had  desired  to  be  loved,  and 
counted  it  not  merely  unjust  but  cruel  of  her  to  show 
him  no  kindness  that  savored  of  like  attraction.  He 
did  not  know  or  suspect  that  a  fortnight  of  the  Lon- 
don season  would  go  far  to  make  him  forget  her. 
He  was  not  a  bad  sort  of  a  fellow,  had  no  vice,  was 
neither  snob  nor  cad;  his  worse  fault  was  pride  in 
himself  because  of  his  family — pride  in  everything 
he  had  been  born  to,  and  in  a  good  deal  he  fancied 
he  had  been  born  to,  in  which  his  having  was  small 
enough.  He  was  not  jealous  of  Barbara's  pleasure 
in  Richard's  company.  The  slightest  probe  of  such 
a  feeling  toward  a  man  so  infinitely  beneath  him,  he 
would  have  felt  degrading.     To  think   of  the   two 


344 


THERE    AND    BACK. 


together  would  have  been  to  insult  both  Barbara  and 
himself;  to  think  of  himself  and  the  bookbinder  for 
one  briefest  moment  of  comparison,  would  have  been 
to  insult  all  the  Lestranges  that  ever  lived.  Take 
had  no  raison  d'etre  but  work  for  the  library  that  would 
one  day  be  Arthur's,  and  by  its  excellence  add  to  the 
honor  of  Mortgrange  !  He  forgot  that  Richard  had 
opened  his  eyes  to  its  merit,  and  imagined  himself 
the  discoverer  of  its  value  :  did  he  not  pay  the  man 
for  his  work.?  and  is  not  what  a  man  pays  for  his 
own  ?  Does  not  the  purchaser  of  a  patent  purchase 
also  the  credit  of  the  invention  .?  That  the  workman 
in  the  Hbrary  knew  as  much  more  than  he  about  the 
insides  as  about  the  the  outsides  of  the  books,  gave 
him  no  dignity  in  his  eyes  :  none  but  a  university- 
man  at  least  must  gain  honor  by  knowledge  !  The 
fact,  however,  did  make  him  more  friendly  ;  and  after 
he  got  used  to  Richard  he  seldom  stiffened  his  jelly 
to  remind  him  that  their  intercourse  was  by  the  suf- 
ferance of  a  humane  spirit.  Barbara's  behavior  to  him 
had  done  nothing  to  humble  him  ;  for  humiliation  is 
at  best  but  a  poisoned  and  poisonous  humility. 

Little  Vixen  ran  out  to  Barbara,  and  made  herself 
less  unpleasant  than  usual  :  the  monkey  was  prepar- 
ing her,  by  what  blandishment  she  was  mistress  of, 
to  receive  a  complaint  against  the  man  in  the  library 
which  would  injure  him  in  her  favor.  Might  Vixen 
but  see  motion  and  commotion,  turmoil  and  passion 
around  her,  she  did  not  care  how  it  arose,  or  which 
of  the  persons  involved  got  the  worse  of  it.  She  ac- 
companied Barbara  to  the  stable,  and  as  they  walked 
back  together,  gave  her  such  an  account  of  what  had 
taken  place,  that  Barbara,  distrusting  the  child,  yet 
felt  anxious.     She  knew  the  spirit  of  Richard,  knew 


BARBARAS    DUTY.  345 

that  he  would  never  show  her  ladyship  the  false  re- 
spect a  tradesman  too  often  shows,  and  feared  lest  he 
should  have  to  leave  the  house.  She  must  give  Lady- 
Ann  the  opportunity  of  saying  what  she  might  please 
on  the  matter  ! 

*  It  must  be  remembered  that  Barbara  was  under  no 
pledge  of  secrecy  to  Alice  or  any  one  ;  she  was  free 
to  do  what  might  seem  for  the  best — that  is,  for  the 
good  of  Richard.  It  was  the  part  of  every  neighbor 
to  take  care  of  a  blind  man,  particularly  when  there 
was  special  ground  for  caution  unknown  to  him. 

"I  am  sorry  to  find  you  so  poorly,  dear  Lady 
Ann,"  she  said,  with  her  quick  sympathy  for  suffering. 

Vixen  had  told  her  that  the  horrid  man  had  made 
her  mamma  quite  ill ;  and  Barbara  found  her  with 
her  boudoir  darkened,  and  a  cup  of  green  tea  on  a 
Japanese  table  by  the  side  of  the  couch  on  which  she 
lay. 

"It  is  only  one  of  my  headaches,  child  !  "  returned 
Lady  Ann.      "Do  not  let  it  disturb  you." 

"I  am  afraid,  from  what  Victoria  tells  me,  that 
something  must  have  occurred  to  annoy  you 
seriously  !  " 

"Nothing  at  all  worth  mentioning.  ■  He  is  an  odd 
person,  that  workman  of  yours  !  " 

"He  is  peculiar,"  granted  Barbara,  doubtful  of  her 
own  honesty  because  of  the  different  sense  in  which 
she  used  the  word  from  that  in  which  it  would  be 
taken  ;  "  but  I  am  certain  he  would  not  willingly 
vex  any  one." 

"Children  will  be  troublesome!"  drawled  her 
ladyship. 

"Particularly  Victoria,"  returned  Barbara.  "Mr. 
Take  cannot  bear  to  have  his  work  put  in  jeopardy  !  " 


346  THERE    AND    BACK. 

"  V^ery  excusable  in  him." 

Barbara  was  surprised  at  her  consideration,  and 
thought  she  must  somehow  be  pleased  with  Richard. 

"It  would  astonish  you  to  hear  him  talk  some- 
times,'' she  said.  "There  is  something  remarkable 
about  the  young  man.  He  must  have  a  histor>' 
somewhere  ! "' 

She  had  been  thinking  whether  it  was  fair  to  Sir 
Wilton  and  his  family  to  conceal  the  momentous  fact 
she  alone  of  their  friends  knew  :  were  they  not  those, 
next  to  Richard  himself,  most  concerned  in  it? 
Should  Lady  Ann  be  allowed  to  go  on  regarding  the 
property  as  the  inheritance  of  her  son,  when  at  any 
instant  it  might  be  swept  from  his  hold  ?  Had  they 
not  a  right  to  some  preparation  for  the  change.?  If 
there  was  another  son,  and  he  the  heir,  ought  she  not 
at  least  to  know  that  there  was  such  a  person  .?  She 
had  resolved,  that  very  morning,  to  give  Lady  Ann 
a  hint  of  the  danger  to  which  she  was  exposed. 

But  there  was  another  reflection,  more  potent  yet, 
that  urged  Barbara  to  speak.  Since  learning  Alice's 
secret,  she  had  found  herself  more  swiftly  drawn 
toward  Richard,  nor  could  she  escape  the  thought 
that  he  might  one  day  ask  her  to  be  his  wife  :  it 
would  be  painful  then  to  know  that  she  had  made 
progress  in  his  regard  by  being  imagined  his  superior, 
when  she  knew  she  was  not  !  Incapable  of  laying  a 
snare,  was  she  not  submitting  to  the  advantage  of  an 
ignorance  ?  The  misconception  she  was  thus  risking 
in  the  future,  had  already  often  prevented  her  from 
going  to  Mortgrange.  Richard,  she  was  certain, 
knew  her  better  than  ever  to  misjudge  her,  but  she 
shrank  from  the  suspicion  of  any  one  that  she  had 
hidden  what   she   knew   for   the   sake    of    securing 


BARBARAS    DUTY.  347 

Richard's  preference  before  their  relations  were 
altered — when,  on  a  level  with  the  choice  of  society, 
he  might  well  think  differently  of  her. 

Barbara  was  one  of  those  to  whom  concealment  is 
a  positive  pain.  She  had  a  natural  hatred,  most 
healthy  and  Christian,  to  all  secrets  as  such  ;  and  to 
take  any  advantage  of  one  would  have  seemed  to  her 
a  loathsome  thing.  She  constantly  wanted  to  say  all 
that  was  in  her,  and  when  she  must  not,  she  suffered. 

"  He  may  have  good  blood  in  him  on  one  side," 
suggested  Lady  Ann.  "  He  was  rude  to  me,  but  I 
dare  say  it  was  the  child's  fault.  He  seems  intelli- 
gent !  " 

"  He  is  more  than  intelligent.  I  suspect  him  of 
being  a  genius." 

"I  should  have  thought  him  a  tradesman  all 
over  ! '" 

"But  wouldn't  genius  by  and  by  make  a  gentle- 
man of  him.?  " 

"  Not  in  the  least.  It  might  make  him  grow  to 
look  like  one." 

"  Isn't  that  the  same  ?     Isn't  it  all  in  the  look  ?  " 

"By  no  means.  A  man  must  be  a  gentleman  or 
he  is  nothing  !  A  gentleman  would  rather  not  have 
been  born  than  not  be  a  gentleman  !  "  said  Lady 
Ann. 

She  spoke  to  an  ignorant  person  from  the  colonies, 
where  they  could  not  be  supposed  to  understand  such 
things,  and  never  suspected  the  danger  she  and  her 
false  importance  were  in  with  the  little  colonial  girl. 

"  But  if  his  parents  were  gentlefolk.''"  suggested 
Barbara. 

"  Birth  predetermines  style,  both  in  body  and 
mind,   I  grant,"   said  Lady    Ann;    "education    and 


348  THERE    AND    BACK. 

society  must  do  their  parts  to  make  any  man  a 
gentleman  ;  and  where  all  has  been  done,  I  must 
confess  to  having  seen  remarkable  failures.  Bad 
blood  must  of  course  have  got  in  somehow." 

"  I  wish  I  knew  what  makes  a  gentleman  !  "sighed 
Barbara.  "I  have  all  my  life  been  trying  to  under- 
stand the  thing.  — Tell  me,  Lady  Ann — to  be  a  gentle- 
man, must  a  man  be  a  good  man  ?  " 

"I  am  sorry  to  say,"  she  answered,  "it  is  not  in 
the  least  necessary." 

"Then  a  gentleman  may  do  bad  things  and  be  a 
gentleman  still }  " 

"Yes — that  is,  some  bad  things." 

"Do  you  mean — not  many  bad  things  ?  " 

"  No  ;  I  mean  certain  kinds  of  bad  things." 

"Such  as  cheating  at  cards.?" 

"  No.  If  he  were  found  doing  that,  he  would  be 
expelled  from  any  club  in  London." 

"May  he  tell  lies,  then  .'* " 

"Certainly  not !  It  is  a  very  ungentlemanly  thing 
to  tell  lies." 

"  Then,  if  a  man  tells  a  lie,  he  is  not  a  gentleman. " 

"I  do  not  say  that ;  I  say  that  to  tell  lies  is  un- 
gentlemanly." 

"Does  that  mean  that  he  may  tell  some  lies,  and 
yet  be  a  gentleman  ?  " 

Lady  Ann  was  afraid  to  go  on.  She  saw  that  to 
go  on  answering  the  girl  from  the  colonies,  with  her 
troublesome  freedom  of  thought  and  question,  might 
land  her  in  a  bog  of  contradictions. 

"  How  many  lies  may  a  gentleman  tell  in  a  day?" 
pursued  the  straight-going  Barbara. 

"  Not  any,"  answered  Lady  Ann. 

"  Does  the  same  rule  hold  for  ladies  ?  " 


BARBARAS    DUTY.  349 


"Y — e — s 1  should  say  so, "  replied  her  lady- 
ship— with  hesitation,  for  she  suspected  being  slowly 
driven  into  some  snare.  She  knew  she  was  not  care- 
ful enough  tospeak  the  truth — so  much  she  confessed 
to  herself,  the  fact  being  that,  to  serve  any  purpose 
she  thought  worth  gaining,  she  would  lie  without  a 
scruple — taking  care,  however,  to  keep  the  lie  as 
like  the  truth  as  consisted  with  success,  in  order 
that,  if  she  were  found  out,  it  might  seem  she  had 
mistaken. 

Barbara  noted  the  uncertainty  of  the  sound  her  lady- 
ship's trumpet  gave,  and  began  to  be  assured  that 
the  laws  of  society  were  no  firm  stepping-stones,  and 
that  society  itself  was  a  morass,  where  one  must 
spend  her  life  in  jumping  from  hump  to  hump,  or  be 
swallowed  up. 

She  had  been  wondering  how  far,  if  Richard 
proved  heir  to  a  baronetcy,  his  education  and  man- 
ners would  decree  him  no  gentleman  ;  but  it  was 
useless  to  seek  light  from  Lady  Ann.  As  they  talked, 
however,  the  feeling  came  and  grew  upon  her,  that 
she  was  not  herself  acting  like  a  lady,  in  going  so 
much  to  her  house,  and  being  received  by  her  as  a 
friend,  when  all  the  time  she  knew  something  she 
did  not  know,  something  it  was  important  for  her 
to  know,  something  she  had  a  right  and  a  claim  to 
know.  She  would  herself  hate  to  live  on  what 
was  not  her  own,  as  Lady  Ann  would  be  left  to 
do  when  Sir  Wilton  died,  if  the  truth  about  Richard 
remained  undisclosed  !  It  was  very  unfair  to  leave 
them  unwarned  for  this  reason  besides,  that  so  the 
fact  might  at  last  find  them,  for  lack  of  preparation, 
without  resource  ! 

"  I  want  to   talk   to    you   about  something.  Lady 


350  THERE    AXD    BACK. 


Ann,"  she  said.  "You  can't  but  know  that  a  son 
of  Sir  Wilton's  was  stolen  when  he  was  a  baby,  and 
never  found  !  " 

It  was  the  first  time  for  many  years  that  Lady  Ann 
had  heard  the  thing  alluded  to  except  once  or  twice 
by  her  husband.  Her  heart  seemed  to  make  a  somer- 
sault, but  not  a  visible  muscle  moved.  What  could 
the  g-irl  be  hmting  at .'  Were  there  reports  about? 
She  must  let  her  talk  ! — the  more  freely  the  better  ! 

"  Every  one  knows  that  !  "  she  answered.  "  It  is 
but  too  true.  It  happened  after  my  marriage.  I 
was  in  the  house  at  the  time. — What  of  it,  child! 
There  can  be  little  hope  of  his  turning  up  now — after 
twenty  years  !  " 

"I  believe  he  has  turned  up.  I  believe  I  know 
him." 

Lady  Ann  jumped  to  the  most  natural,  most  mis- 
taken conclusion. 

"  It's  the  bookbinder  !  "  she  said  to  herself.  "  He 
has  been  telling  her  a  pack  of  lies  !  His  being  in  the 
house  is  part  of  the  plot.  It  must  be  nipped  in  the 
bud  !  If  it  be  no  lie,  if  he  be  the  very  man,  it  must 
be  nipped  all  the  same  !  Good  heavens  !  if  Arthur 
should  not  marry  her — or  some  one — before  it  is 
known  !  " 

"It  may  be  so,"  she  answered,  quietly,  "but  it 
hardly  interests  me.  I  don't  like  talking  of  such 
things  to  a  girl,  but  innocence  cannot  always  be 
spared  in  this  wicked  world.  The  child  you  speak 
of  was  born  in  this  house,  and  stolen  out  of  it ;  but 
his  mother  was  a  low  woman  ;  she  was  not  the  wife 
of  Sir  Wilton." 

"  Everybody  believed  her  his  wife  ! "  faltered  Bar- 
bara. 


Barbara's  duty.  351 


"Very  possibly!  Very  likely!  She  may  even 
have  thought  so  herself  I  Such  people  are  so  igno- 
rant !  "  said  Lady  Ann  with  the  utmost  coolness.  ' "  He 
may  even  have  married  her  after  the  child  was  born 
for  anything  I  know." 

"Sir  Wilton  must  have  made  her  believe  she  was 
his  wife  ! "  cried  Barbara,  her  blood  rising  at  the 
thought  of  such  a  wrong  done  to  Richard's  mother. 

"  Possibly,"  admitted  Lady  Ann  with  a  smile. 

"Then  a  baronet  may  tell  lies,  though  a  gentle- 
man may  not !  "  said  Barbara,  as  if  speaking  to  her- 
self. 

Lady  Ann  was  not  indignant.  She  had  hesitated 
to  say  a  lady  might  lie,  but  did  not  hesitate  to  lie 
the  moment  the  temptation  came,  nor  for  that  would 
doubt  herself  a  lady !  She  knew  perfectly  that  the 
woman  was  the  wife  of  her  husband  as  much  as  she 
herself  was,  and  that  she  died  giving  birth  to  the 
heir.  She  had  no  hope  that  any  He  she  could  tell 
would  keep  that  child  out  of  the  property  if  he  were 
alive  and  her  husband  wished  him  to  have  it ;  but  a 
lie  well  told  to  Barbara  might  help  to  keep  her  for 
Arthur. 

"Gentlemen  think  they  may  tell  lies  to  women  !  " 
she  returned  with  calmness,  and  just  a  tinge  of 
regret. 

"  How  are  they  gentlemen  then.?  "  cried  Barbara  ; 
"or  where  is  the  good  of  being  a  gentleman  .?  Is 
it  that  he  knows  better  how  to  lie  to  a  woman  .?  A 
knight  used  to  be  every  woman's  castle  of  refuge  ; 
a  gentleman  now,  it  seems,  is  a  pitfall  in  the  bush  !  " 
"  It  is  a  matter  they  settled  among  themselves," 
answered  Lady  Ann,  confused  between  her  desire  to 
appear  moral,  and  to  gain  her  lie  credit. 


352  THERE    AND    BACK. 

"I  think  I  shall  not  call  myself  a  lady!"  said 
Barbara,  after  a  moment's  silence.  "  I  prefer  being 
a  woman  !  I  wonder  whether  in  heaven  they  say  a 
woman  or  a  lady  /  " 

"  I  suppose  they  are  all  sorts  there  as  well  as  here," 
answered  Lady  Ann. 

"  How  will  the  ladies  do  without  gentlemen.?" 
suggested  Barbara. 

"  Why  without  gentlemen  }  There  will  be  as  many 
surely  of  the  one  sex  as  of  the  other  !  " 

"  No,"  said  Barbara,  "  that  cannot  be  !  Gentlemen 
tell  lies,  and  I  am  sure  no  lie  is  told  in  heaven !  " 

"All  gentlemen  do  not  tell  lies!"  returned  Lady 
Ann,  herself  at  the  moment  full  of  lying. 

"But  all  gentlemen  may  lie  !"  persisted  Barbara, 
"so  there  can  be  no  gentlemen  in  heaven." 

"I  am  sorry  I  had  to  mention  the  thing,"  returned 
Lady  Ann,  "  but  I  was  afraid  your  sweet  romantic 
nature  might  cherish  an  interest  where  was  nothing 
on  which  to  ground  it.  Of  course  I  know  whence 
the  report  you  allude  to  comes  !  A7iy  man,  book- 
binder or  blacksmith,  may  put  in  a  claim.  He  will 
find  plenty  to  back  him.  They  will  very  likely  get 
up  a  bubble-company,  for  speculation  on  his  chance  ! 
His  own  class  will  be  sure  to  take  his  part  !  Now 
that  those  that  ought  to  know  better  have  taught  them 
to  combine,  the  lower  orders  stick  at  nothing  to  annoy 
their  superiors  !  But,  thank  heaven,  the  estate  is  7ioi 
entailed  !  " 

"  If  you  imagine  Mr.  Tuke  told  me  he  was  heir  to 
Mortgrange,  Lady  Ann,  you  are  mistaken.  He  does 
not  know  himself  that  he  is  even  supposed  to  be." 

"  Are  you  sure  of  that .?  Who  then  told  you.'  Is 
it  likely  his  friends  have  got  him  in  to  the  house, 


BARBARAS    DUTY.  353 


under  the  eye  of  his  pretended  father,  and  he  himself 
know  nothing  of  the  manoeuvre?  " 

"  How  do  you  know  it  was  he  I  meant,  Lady  Ann  ?  " 

"  You  told  me  so  yourself." 

"  No  ;  that  I  did  not !  I  know  I  didn't,  Lady  Ann  ! 
What  made  you  fix  on  him  .-'  " 

Lady  Ann  saw  she  had  committed  herself. 

"If  you  did  not  tell  me,"  she  rejoined,  "your 
peculiar  behavior  to  the  man  must  have  led  me  to 
the  conclusion  !  " 

"  I  have  never  concealed  my  interest  in  Mr.  Tuke, 
but " 

"You  certainly  have  not !"  interrupted  her  lady- 
ship, who  both  suffered  in  temper  and  lost  in  pru- 
dence from  annoyance  at  her  own  blunder. 

"Pray,  hear  me  out,  Lady  Ann.  What  I  want  to 
say  is,  that  my  friendship  for  Mr.  Tuke  had  begun 
long  before  I  learned  the  fact  concerning  which  I 
thought  I  ought  to  warn  you." 

"Friendship  ! — ah,  well! — scarcely  decorous  ! — 
but  as  to  what  you  c^W/act,  I  would  counsel  a  little 
caution.  I  repeat  that,  if  the  man  be  the  son  of  that 
woman,  which  may  be  difficult  to  prove,  it  is  of  no 
consequence  to  any  one  :  Sir  Wilton  was  never  mar- 
ried to  his  mother — properly  married,  I  mean.  I  am 
sorry  he  should  have  been  born  out  of  wedlock — it  is 
anything  but  proper ;  at  the  same  time  I  cannot  be 
sorry  that  he  will  never  come  between  my  Arthur  and 
the  succession," 

Here  Lady  Ann  saw  a  sudden  radiance  light  up  the 
face  of  Barbara,  and  change  its  expression,  from  that 
of  a  lady  rightfully  angry  and  a  little  scornful,  to  that 
of  a  child-angel.  Entirely  concerned  hitherto  with 
Richard's  loss  and  pain,  if  what  Lady  Ann  said  should 


354  THERE    AND    BACK. 

be  true,  it  now  first  occurred  to  her  what  she  herself 
would  g-ain  if  indeed  he  was  not  the  heir:  no  one 
could  think  she  had  been  his  friend  because  he  was 
going  to  be  a  rich  man  !  If  he  was  the  wronged  man 
her  ladyship  represented  him — and  her  ladyship  ought 
to  know — she  might  behave  to  him  as  she  pleased 
without  suspicion  of  low  motive  !  Little  she  knew 
what  motives  such  persons  as  Lady  Ann  were  capable 
of  attributing — as  little  how  incapable  they  were  of 
understanding  any  generous  motive  ! 

Barbara  had  an  insuperable,  a  divine  love  of  jus- 
tice. She  would  have  scorned  the  thought  of  forsak- 
ing a  friend  because  the  very  mode  of  his  earthly 
being  was  an  antenatal  wrong  to  him.  The  right- 
eousness that  makes  a  man  visit  the  sins  of  a  father 
upon  his  children,  is  the  righteousness  of  a  devil,  not 
the  righteousness  of  God.  When  God  visits  the  sins 
of  a  father  on  his  children,  it  is  to  deliver  the  child 
from  his  own  sins  through  yielding  to  inherited  temp- 
tation. Barbara  rejoiced  that  she  was  free  to  ap- 
proach Richard,  and  make  some  amends  to  him  for 
the  ass-judgment  of  the  world.  I  do  not  know  that 
she  said  to  herself,  "Now  I  may  love  him  as  I 
please  !  "  but  her  thought  went  in  that  direction. 

It  did  not  take  Lady  Ann  long  to  interpret  the  glow 
on  Barbara's  face  to  her  own  satisfaction.  The 
report  she  had  heard  and  believed,  had  kept  Barbara 
back  from  encouraging  Arthur,  and  made  her  pursue 
her  unpleasant  intimacy  with  the  bookbinder  !  the 
sudden  change  on  her  countenance  indicated  the 
relief  of  finding  that  Arthur,  and  not  this  man,  was 
indeed  the  heir !  How  could  she  but  prefer  her 
Arthur  to  a  man  smelling  of  leather  and  glue,  a  man 
without    the  manners  or  education    of  a  gentleman  ! 


BARBARA  S    DUTY. 


355 


He  might  know  a  few  things  that  gentlemen  did  not 
care  to  know,  but  even  those  he  got  only  out  of  books  ! 
He  could  not  do  one  of  the  many  things  her  Arthur 
did!  He  could  neither  ride,  nor  shoot,  nor  dress, 
nor  dance  !  He  was  tall,  but  he  was  clumsy  !  No 
doubt  he  was  a  sort  of  vulgar-handsome,  but  when 
out  of  temper,  was  ugly  enough  ! 

That  Lady  Ann  condescended  to  such  comparison, 
was  enough  to  show  that  she  believed  the  story  at 
least  half.     The  girl  remaining  silent. 

"You  will  oblige  me,  dear  Barbara,  "she  said,  "  by 
not  alluding  to  this  report.  It  might  raise  doubt 
where  it  could  not  do  serious  harm  !  " 

"  There  are  others  who  not  only  know  but  believe 
it,"  answered  Barbara. 

"Who  are  they.? " 

"I  do  not  feel  at  liberty  to  tell  their  names.  I 
thought  you  had  a  right  to  know  what  was  said,  but 
I  have  no  right  to  mention  where  I  heard  it." 

Lady  Ann  grew  thoughtful  again,  and  as  she 
thought  grew  convinced  that  Barbara  had  not  spoken 
the  truth,  and  that  it  was  Richard  who  had  told  her  : 
it  is  so  easy  for  those  who  lie  to  believe  that  another 
is  lying  1  It  is  impossible  indeed  for  such  to  imagine 
that  another,  with  what  they  would  count  strong 
reason  for  lying,  would  not  lie.  Gain  is  the  crucial 
question  for  vile  souls  of  any  rank.  She  believed 
also,  for  they  that  lie  doom  themselves  to  believe 
lies  as  well  as  disbelieve  truths,  that  Richard  had  got 
into  the  house  in  order  to  learn  things  that  might  serve 
in  the  establishing  of  his  claim. 

"  It  will  be  much  better  you  should  keep  silent  con- 
cerning the  report,"  she  said.  "  I  do  not  want  the 
question  stirred.       If   the   young   man,    any    young 


THERE    AND    BACK. 


man,  I  mean,  should  claim  ihe  heirship,  we  must 
meet  the  thing  as  it  ought  to  be  met ;  till  then,  prom- 
ise me  you  will  be  silent." 

She  would  fain  have  time  to  think,  for  she  feared  in 
some  way  compromising  herself.  And  in  any  case, 
the  longer  the  crisis  could  be  postponed,  the  better 
for  her  prospects  in  the  issue  ! 

"I  will  not  promise  anything,"  answered  Barbara. 
"I  dread  promising." 

"Why?"  asked  Lady  Ann,  raising  her  eyebrows. 

"Because  promises  have  to  be  kept,  and  that  is 
sometimes  very  difficult,  and  because  sometimes  you 
find  you  ought  not  to  have  made  them,  and  yet  you 
must  keep  them.  It  is  a  horrid  thing  to  have  to  keep 
a  promise  you  don't  like  keeping,  especially  if  it  hurts 
anybody." 

"But  if  you  ought  to  make  the  promise  !"  sug- 
gested Lady  Ann. 

"Then  you  must  make  it.  But  where  there  is  no 
ought,  I  think  it  wTong  to  bind  yourself.  What  right 
have  you,  when  you  don't  know  what  may  be  wanted 
of  you,  to  tie  your  own  hands  and  feet .?  There 
may  come  an  earthquake  or  a  fire  !  " 

"  Does  friendship  demand  nothing.?  You  are  our 
guest  !  " 

It  was  not  in  lying  only  that  Lady  Ann  was  not  a 
lady. 

"One's  friends  may  have  conflicting  interests!" 
said  Barbara. 

Lady  Ann  was  convinced  that  Richard  was  at  the 
root  of  the  affair,  and  she  hated  him.  What  if  he 
were  the  heir,  and  it  could  be  proved  !  The  thought 
was  sickening.  It  was  with  the  utmost  strain  that 
she   kept   up    her   apparent   indifference   before  the 


BARBARAS    DUTY.  357 


mocking  imp  honest  Barbara  seemed  to  her.  For 
heaven  is  the  devil's  hell,  and  the  true  are  the  devils 
of  it.  How  was  she  to  assure  herself  concerning  the 
fellow  ?  How  discover  what  he  was,  what  he  knew, 
and  how  much  he  could  prove  ?  She  could  not  even 
think,  with  that  little  savage  sitting  there,  staring  out 
of  her  wide  eyes  ! 

"My  sweet  Barbara,"  she  said,  "I  am  so  much 
obliged  to  you  for  letting  me  know  !  I  will  not  ask 
any  promise  from  you.  Only  you  must  not  heed- 
lessly bring  trouble  upon  us.  If  the  thing  were  talked 
about,  some  unprincipled  lavvyer  would  be  sure  to 
take  it  up,  and  there  would  be  another  claimant-case, 
with  the  people  in  a  hubbub,  and  thousands  of  igno- 
rant honest  folk  duped  of  their  money  to  enrich  the 
rascality.  I  heard  a  distinguished  judge  once  say, 
that,  even  if  the  claimant  zvere  the  real  Sir  Roger,  he 
had  no  right  to  the  property,  having  so  long  neglected 
the  duties  of  it  as  to  make  it  impossible  to  be  certain 
of  his  identity.  Such  people  put  the  country  to  enor- 
mous expense,  and  are  never  of  any  service  to  it. 
It  is  a  wrong  to  all  classes  when  a  man  without  edu- 
cation succeeds  to  property.  For  one  thing  he  will 
always  side  with  the  tenants  against  the  land.  And 
what  service  can  any  such  man  render  his  country  in 
parliament.'*  Without  a  suitable  training  there  can 
be  no  genuine  right." 

She  was  on  the  point  of  adding — "And  then  are 
the  hopes  and  services  and  just  expectations  of  a  life- 
time to  go  for  nothing.?  "but  checked  herself  and  was 
silent. 

To  all  this  Barbara  nad  been  paying  little  heed. 
She  was  revolving  whether  she  ought  to  tell  Richard 
what  she  had  just  heard.     Neither  then  nor  as  she 


35^  THERE    AND    BACK. 


rode  home,  however,  could  she  come  to  a  con- 
cUision.  If  Richard  was  not  the  heir,  why  should 
she  trouble  him  ?  But  he  might  be  the  heir,  and  what 
then  ?  She  must  seek  counsel  !  But  of  whom  ?  Not 
of  her  mother!  As  certainly  not  of  her  father!  She 
had  no  ground  for  trusting  the  judgment  of  either. 

Having  got  rid  of  Miss  Brown,  she  walked  to  the 
parsonage. 

But  she  did  not  find  there  such  a  readiness  to  give 
advice  as  she  had  expected. 

"The  thing  is  not  my  business,"  said  Wingfold. 
"Not!"  returned  the  impetuous  Barbara.  "I 
thought  you  were  so  much  interested  in  the  young 
man  !  He  told  me  the  other  day  that  he  had  seen 
you  again,  and  had  a  long  talk  with  you,  and  that 
you  thought  the  popular  idea  of  the  inspiration  of  the 
Scriptures  the  greatest  nonsense  !  " 

"Did  he  tell  you  that  I  said  it  was  much  nearer  the 
truth  after  all  than  the  fancy  that  the  Bible   had  no 
claim  beyond  any  other  book.?  " 
"  Yes,  he  did." 

"That's  all  right! — Tell  me  then.  Miss  Wylder  : 
are  you  interested  in  the  young  man  because  he  is 
possibly  heir  to  a  baronetcy.?  " 

"  Certainly  not !  "  answered  Barbara,  with  indigna- 
tion. 

"Then  why  should  1  be.?  "pursued  the  parson. 
"What  is  it  to  me.?  I  am  not  a  county-magistrate 
even  .?  " 

"I  cannot  understand  you,  ]\Ir.  Wingfold  !"  pro- 
tested Barbara.  "You  say  you  are  there  not  for 
yourself  but  for  the  people,  yet  you  will  not  move 
to  see  right  done  !  " 

"I  would  move  a  long  way  to  see  that  Mr.  Tuke 


BARBARAS    DUTY.  359 

cared  to  do  right  :  that  is  my  business.  It  is  not 
much  to  me,  and  nothing  to  my  business,  whether 
Mr.  Tuke  be  rich  or  poor,  a  baronet  or  a  bookbinder  ; 
it  is  everything  to  me  whether  Mr.  Tuke  will  be  an 
honest  fellow  or  not." 

"But  if  he  should  prove  to  have  a  right  to  the 
property  ?  " 

"Then  he  ought  to  have  the  property.  But  it  is 
not  my  business  to  discover  or  to  enforce  the  right. 
My  business  is  to  help  the  young  man  to  make  little 
of  the  matter,  whether  he  find  himself  the  lawful 
heir,  or  a  much  injured  man  through  his  deceived 
mother. — Tell  me  whose  servant  I  am." 

"  You  are  the  servant  of  Jesus  Christ." 

" — Who  said  the  servant  must  be  as  his  master. — 
Do  you  remember  how  he  did  when  a  man  came 
asking  him  to  see  justice  done  between  him  and  his 
brother.? — He  said,  'Man,  who  made  me  a  judge  and 
a  divider  over  you  ?  Take  heed  and  beware  of 
covetousness. ' — It  may  hejyour  business  to  see  about 
it ;  I  don't  know  ;  I  scarcely  think  it  is.  My  advice 
would  be  to  keep  quiet  yet  awhile,  and  see  what  will 
come.  There  appears  no  occasion  for  hurry.  The 
universe  does  not  hang  on  the  question  of  Richard's 
rights.  Will  it  be  much  whether  your  friend  go  into 
the  other  world  as  late  heir,  or  even  late  owner  of 
Mortgrange,  or  as  the  son  of  Tuke,  the  bookbinder  .' 
Will  the  dead  be  moved  from  beneath  to  meet  the 
young  baronet  at  his  coming.?  Will  the  bookbinder 
go  out  into  dry  places,  seeking  rest  and  finding 
none?  " 


CHAPTER   XXXV. 

THE      parson's      counsel. 

It  was  a  happy  thing  for  both  Richard  and  Barbara 
that  Barbara  was  now  under  another  influence  besides 
Richard's.  The  more  she  saw  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wing- 
fold,  the  more  she  felt  that  she  had  come  into  a  region  ' 
of  reality  and  life.  Both  of  them  understood  what  a 
rare  creature  she  was,  and  spoke  as  freely  before  her 
as  if  she  had  been  a  sister  of  their  own  age  and 
standing.  Barbara  on  her  side  knew  no  restraint 
with  them,  but  spoke  in  like  freedom,  both  of  her 
past  life,  and  the  present  state  of  things  at  home — 
which  was  indeed  no  secret,  being  manifest  to  tlie 
servants,  and  therefore  known  to  all  the  county,  in 
forms  more  or  less  correct,  as  it  had  been  to  all  the 
colony  before  they  left  it.  She  talked  almost  as  freely 
of  Richard,  and  of  the  great  desire  she  had  to  get 
him  to  believe  in  God. 

"It  was  a  dangerous  relation  between  two  such 
young  people  !  "  some  of  my  readers  will  remark. — 
Yes,  I  answer — dangerous,  as  every  true  thing  is 
dangerous  to  him  or  her  who  is  not  true ;  as  every 
good  thing  is  dangerous  to  him  or  her  who  is  not 
good.  Nothing  is  so  dangerous  as  religious  senti- 
ment without  truth  in  the  inward  parts.  Certain 
attempts  at  what  is  called  conversion,  are  but  writh- 
ings  of  the  passion  of  self-recommendation  ;  gapings 
of  the  greed  of  power  over  others  ;  swellings  of  the 
ambition  to  propagate  one's  own  creed,  and  prosely- 


THK    parson's    counsel.  36 1 

tize  victoriously  ;  hungerings  to  see  self  reflected  in 
another  convinced.  In  such  efforts  lie  dangers  as 
vulgar  as  the  minds  that  make  them,  and  love  the 
excitement  of  them.  But  genuine  love  is  far  beyond 
such  grovelling  delights  ;  and  the  peril  of  such  a  re- 
lation is  in  inverse  proportion  to  the  reality  of  those 
concerned. 

Barbara  was  one  who,  so  far  as  human  eyes  could 
see,  had  never  required  conversion.  She  had  but  to 
go  on,  recognize,  and  do.  She  turned  to  the  light 
by  a  holy  will  as  well  as  holy  instinct.  She  needed 
much  instruction,  and  might  yet  have  fierce  battles  to 
fight,  but  to  convert  such  as  Barbara  must  be  to  turn 
them  the  wrong  way;  for  the  whole  energy  of  her 
being  was  in  the  direction  of  what  is  right — that  is, 
righteousness.  She  needed  but  to  be  told  a  good  thing 
— I  do  not  say  told  that  a  thing  was  good — and  at  once 
she  received  it — that  is,  obeyed  it,  the  only  way  of 
receiving  a  truth.  She  did  the  thing  immediately 
demanded  upon  every  reception  of  light,  every  ex- 
pansion of  true  knowledge.  She  was  essentially  of 
the  truth  ;  and  therefore,  when  she  came  into  relation 
with  a  soul  such  as  Wingfold,  a  soul  so  much  more 
developed  than  herself,  so  much  farther  advanced  in 
the  knowledge  of  realities  as  having  come  through 
difficulties  unknown  and  indeed  at  present  unknow- 
able to  Barbara,  she  met  one  of  her  own  house,  and 
her  life  was  fed  from  his,  and  began  to  grow  faster. 
For  he  taught  her  to  know  the  eternal  man  who  bore 
witness  to  his  father  in  the  face  of  his  perverse  chil- 
dren to  know  that  his  heart  was  the  heart  of  a  child  in 
truth  and  love,  and  the  heart  of  a  God  in  courage  and 
patience  ;  and  Barbara  became  his  slave  for  very 
love,  his  blessed  child,  the  inheritor  of  his  universe. 


362  THERE    AND    BACK. 

Happily  her  life  had  not  been  loaded  to  the  ground 
with  the  degrading-  doctrines  of  those  that  cower  before 
a  God  whose  justice  may  well  be  satisfied  with  the 
blood  of  the  innocent,  seeing  it  consists  but  in  the 
punishing  of  the  guilty.  She  had  indeed  heard  noth- 
ing of  that  brood  of  lies  until  the  unbelieving  Richard 
— ah,  not  far  from  believing  he  who  but  rejected  such 
a  God  ! — gave  her  to  know  that  such  things  were  be- 
lieved. From  the  whole  swarm  she  was  protected — 
shame  that  it  should  have  to  be  said  ! — by  pure  lack  of 
what  is  generally  regarded  as  a  religious  education, 
such  being  the  mother  of  more  tears  and  madness  in 
humble  souls,  and  more  presumption  in  the  proud 
and  selfish,  than  perhaps  any  other  influence  out  of 
whose  darkness  God  brings  light.  Neither  ascetic 
nor  mystic  nor  doctrinist  of  any  sort,  caring  nothing 
for  church  or  chapel,  or  observance  of  any  kind  as 
observance,  she  believed  in  God,  and  was  now  ready 
to  die  for  Jesus  Christ,  in  the  eternal  gladness  that 
there  was  such  a  person  as  God  and  such  a  person  as 
Jesus  Christ.  There  being  was  to  her  the  full  and  only 
pledge  of  every  bliss,  every  childlike  delight.  She  be- 
lieved in  the  God  of  the  whole  earth,  not  in  a  puritan- 
ical God.  She  never  imagined  it  could  be  wrong  to 
dance  ;  merry  almost  in  her  very  nature,  she  now  held 
it  a  duty  to  be  glad.  Fond  of  sweets,  she  would  have 
thought  it  wrong  to  refuse  what  God  meant  her  to 
like  ;  but  she  had  far  more  pleasure  in  giving  than  in 
receiving  them.  Shegotintoa  little  habit  of  thanking 
God  for  Miss  Brown  every  time  she  felt  herself  on  her 
back.  She  saw,  the  moment  she  heard  it,  that  what- 
ever was  not  of  faith  was  sin  :  "  The  idea,"  she  said, 
"  of  taking  a  thing  from  God  without  thinking  love 
back  to  him  for  it !  "      She  shuddered  at  the  thought 


THE    parson's    counsel.  363 

of  unnecessarily  hurting-,  yet  would  punish  sharply. 
She  would  whip  her  dog  when  he  deserved  it,  but  sat 
up  all  night  with  him  once  when  he  was  ill.  She 
understood  something  of  the  ways  of  God  with  men. 

Wingfold  never  sought  to  moderate  her  ardor  for 
the  good  of  her  workman-friend ;  he  only  sought  to 
strengthen  her  in  the  truth. 

One  day,  when  they  were  all  three  sitting  to- 
gether in  the  twilight  before  the  lamp  was  lit — for 
Helen  Wingfold  was  one  of  those  happy  women 
able  to  let  their  hands  lie  in  their  laps — he  said  to  his 
pupil  : 

"  Now,  pray,  Miss  Wylder,  don't  try  by  argument 
to  convince  the  young-  man  of  anything.  That 
were  no  good,  even  if  you  succeeded.  Opinion  is 
all  that  can  result  from  argument,  and  his  opinion 
concerning  God,  even  if  you  got  it  set  right,  would 
not  be  knowledge  of  God,  and  would  be  worth 
nothing ;  while,  if  a  man  knows  God,  his  opinion  is 
either  right,  or  on  the  nearest  way  to  be  right.  The 
notion  in  Richard's  brain  of  the  God  he  denies  is 
but  another  form  of  the  Moloch  of  the  Ammonites. 
There  never  was,  and  never  could  be  such  a  God. 
He  in  whom  I  believe  is  the  God  that  says,  '  This 
is  my  beloved  son  in  whom  I  am  well  pleased.'  It 
is  as  if  he  said — '  Look  at  that  man  :  I  am  just  such  ! 
No  other  likeness  of  me  is  a  true  likeness.  Heed 
my  son  ;  heed  nobody  else.  Know  him  and  you 
know  me,  and  then  we  are  one  forever.'  Talk  to 
Richard  of  the  God  you  love,  the  beautiful,  the 
strong,  the  true,  the  patient,  the  forgiving,  the 
loving  ;  the  one  childlike,  eternal  power  and  God- 
head, who  would  die  himself  and  kill  you  rather 
than  have    you  false    and   mean    and    selfish.     Let 


3^4  THERE    AND    BACK. 


him  feel  God  through  your  enthusiasm  for  him. 
You  can't  prove  to  him  that  there  is  any  God.  A 
God  that  could  be  proved  would  not  be  worth  prov- 
ing. Make  his  thoughts  dwell  on  such  a  God  as 
he  must  feel  would  be  worth  having.  Wake  the 
notion  of  a  God  such  as  will  draw  him  to  wish 
there  were  such  a  God.  There  are  many  religious 
people  who  will  tell  you  there  is  no  such  God  as  I 
mean  ;  but  God  will  love  you  for  believing  that  he 
is  as  good  and  true  as  you  can  think.  Throw  the 
notions  of  any  who  tell  you  otherwise  to  the  winds 
of  hell.  'God  is  just  !' said  a  carping  theologian 
to  me  the  other  day.  'Yes,'  I  answered,  'and  he 
cannot  be  pleased  that  you  should  call  that  justice 
which  is  injustice,  and  attribute  it  to  him!'  There 
are  many  who  must  die  in  ignorance  of  their  Father 
in  heaven,  because  they  will  not  of  their  own  selves 
judge  what  is  right.  Such  never  get  beyond  the 
weak  and  beggarly  elements.  Set  in  Richard's  eye 
a  God  worth  believing  in,  a  God  like  the  son  of  God, 
and  he  will  go  and  look  if  haply  such  a  God  may 
be  found ;  he  will  call  upon  him,  and  the  God  who 
is  will  hear  and  answer  him.  What  good  would  it 
be,  what  could  it  bring  but  the  more  condemnation, 
that  a  man  should  be  sure  there  was  a  God,  if  he 
did  not  cry  to  him  ?  But  although  a  man  may  never 
d  ubt  and  never  cry,  I  cannot  imagine  any  man 
sure  there  is  a  God  without  his  first  having  cried  to 
him.  God  is  God  to  us  not  that  we  may  say  he  is, 
but  that  we  may  know  him  ;  and  when  we  know  him, 
then  we  are  with  him,  at  home,  at  the  heart  of  the 
universe,  the  heirs  of  all  things.  All  this  is  foolish- 
ness, I  know,  to  the  dull  soul  that  cares  only  for 
the  things  that  admit  of   being   proved.     The    un- 


THE    parson's    counsel.  365 

provable  mystery  out  of  which  come  the  things 
provable  has  for  them  no  interest,  they  say,  because 
it  is  unprovable  :  they  take  for  granted  that  there- 
fore it  is  unknowable.  Would  they  be  content  it 
should  be  unknowable  if  things  were  all  as  they 
should  be  within  them  ?  When  the  eyes  of  those 
who  have  made  themselves  at  home  in  the  world 
of  the  senses  and  care  for  no  other,  are  opened  I 
imagine  them  saying — 'Yes,  He  was  after  all ;  but 
none  the  less  were  you  fools  to  believe  in  him,  for 
you  had  no  proof ! '  Then  I  seem  to  hear  the  children 
laugh  and  say,  'We  had  himself,  and  did  not  want 
it.'  That  the' unprovable  is  necessarily  the  unknow- 
V,  able,  a  thousand  beliefs  deny.  '  You  cannot  prove 
to  me  that  you  have  a  father  ! '  says  the  blind  sage, 
reasoning  with  the  little  child.  '  Why  should  I  prove 
it.?'  answers  the  child.  '  I  am  sitting  on  his  knee  ! 
If  I  could  prove  it,  that  would  not  make  you  see 
him  ;  that  would  not  make  you  happy  like  me  !  You 
do  not  care  about  my  father,  or  you  would  not  stand 
there  disputing ;  you  would  feel  about  until  you 
found  him  ! '  If  a  thing  be  true  in  itself,  it  is  not 
capable  of  proof;  and  that  man  is  in  the  higher 
condition  who  is  able  to  believe  it.  In  proportion 
as  a  man  is  a  fool  he  is  unable  to  believe  what  in 
itself  is  true.  If  intellect  be  the  highest  power, 
then  the  men  of  proof  are  the  wisest ;  if  there  be 
something  deeper  than  intellect,  causing  and  in- 
cluding it,  if  there  be  a  creative  power  of  which  our 
intellect  is  but  a  faint  reflex,  then  the  child  of  that 
power,  the  one  who  acknowledges  and  loves  and 
obeys  that  power,  will  be  the  one  to  understand  it. 
If  a  man  say,  '  I  cannot  believe  ;  I  was  not  made  to 
believe  what  I  could  not  prove  ;  '  I   reply.  Do  you 


^()6  THERE    AND    BACK. 

really  say,  'It  is  not  true,'  because  you  have  no 
proof?  Ask  yourself  whether  you  do  not  turn  from 
the  idea  because  you  prefer  it  should  not  be  true. 
You  accept  a  thousand  things  without  proof,  and  a 
thousand  things  may  be  perfectly  true,  and  have  no 
proof.  But  if  you  cannot  be  sure,  why  therefore  do 
you  turn  away  ?  Is  the  thing  assuredly  false  ?  Then 
you  ought  of  course  to  turn  away.  Can  you  prove 
it  false.?  You  cannot.  Again,  why  do  you  turn 
away  ?  That  a  thing  is  not  assuredly  true  cannot 
be  reason  for  turning  from  it,  else  farewell  to  all 
theory  and  all  scientific  research  !  Is  the  thing  less 
good,  less  desirable,  less  worth  believing,  in  itself, 
that  you  cannot  thus  satisfy  yourself  concerning  it.? 
The  very  chance  that  such  a  thing  may  be  true,  the 
very  fact  that  it  cannot  be  disproved,  is  large  reason 
for  an  honest,  and  continuous,  and  unending  search. 
Do  you  hold  any  door  in  your  nature  open  for  the 
possibility  of  a  God  having  a  claim  on  you.?  The 
truth  is,  as  I  hinted  before,  that  you  are  not  drawn 
to  the  idea,  do  not  like  it  ;  and  it  is  therefore  you 
turn  away,  and  not  because  you  have  no  proof. — 
If  the  man  then  shifted  his  ground  and  said,  '  lie 
scemetl  to  me  not  a  good  being,  and  I  said  there- 
fore, he  cannot  exist ; '  I  should  reply,  There  you 
were  right.  But  a  thing  that  cannot  be,  cannot 
render  impossible  a  thing  that  can  be — a  thing 
against  whose  existence  there  are  no  such  arguments 
as  have  rightly  shown  that  the  other  cannot  be.  In 
right  logical  balance  you  must  admit  that  a  creative 
being  who  is  good  ?//(/y  exist.  But  the  final  question 
is  always  this  :  Have  you  acted,  or  rather,  arc  you 
acting  according  to  the  conscience  which  is  the  one 
guide  to  truth,  to  all  that  is?" 


THE    parson's    counsel.  367 

**  But,"  said  Barbara,  "  perhaps  the  man  would  say- 
that  we  see  such  suffering- in  the  world,  that  the  being- 
who  made  it,  if  there  be  one,  cannot  possibly  be  both 
strong  and  g-ood,  otherwise  he  would  not  allow  it." 

"Say  then,  that  he  might  be  both  strong  and  good, 
•and  have  some  reason  for  allowing,  or  even  causing 
it,  which  those  who  suffer  will  themselves  one  day 
justify,  ready  for  the  sake  of  it  to  go  through  all  the 
suffering  again.  Less  than  that  would  not  satisfy 
me.  If  he  say,  'What  reason  could  justify  the  inflic- 
tion of  such  suffering  ! '  then  tell  him  what  I  am  now 
going  to  tell  you. 

"A  year  ago,"  continued  Wingfold,  "my  little  boy 
displeased  me  horribly.  I  will  not  tell  you  what  he 
did  :  when  the  boy  grows  up,  he  will  find  it  as  im- 
possible to  understand  how  he  could  have  done  the 
thing,  as  I  find  it  now.  People  say,  ♦Children  will 
be  children  !  '  but  I  see  little  consolation  in  that. 
Children  must  be  children,  and  ought  to  be  good 
children.  They  are  made  to  be  good  children,  just 
as  much  as  men  are  made  to  be  good  men.  All  I 
will  say  is,  that  he  did  a  mean  thing.  You  see  his 
mother  can  hardly  keep  from  crying  now  at  the 
thought  of  it.  Thank  God,  she  was  of  one  mind  with 
me.  I  took  him,  and,  bent  on  making  him  feel,  if 
not  how  horrid  the  thing  was  in  itself — for  what  im- 
perfect being  can  ever  know  the  full  horror  of  evil  ! 
■ — at  least  how  horrid  I  thought  it,  broke  out  in  strong 
language.  I  told  him  I  must  whip  him  ;  that  I  could 
not  bear  doing  it,  but  rather  than  he  should  be  a 
damned,  mean,  contemptible  little  rascal,  I  would 
kill  him  and  be  hanged  for  it.  I  dare  say  it  sounds 
very  improper,  but " 

"  Not  in  the  least !  "  cried  Barbara.      "  I  like  a  man 


368  THERE    AND    BACK. 


to  curse  what  is  bad,  and  go  down  on  his  knees  to 
what  is  good." 

"  Well,  what  do  you  think  the  little  fellow  said  ? — 
'Don't  kill  me,  papa,' he  cried.  *  I  will  be  good. 
Don't,  please,  be  hanged  for  my  naughtiness  !  Whip 
me,  and  that  will  make  me  good.'  "  • 

"And  then  you  couldn't  do  it.?"  asked  Barbara, 
anxiously. 

"I  cried,"  said  Wingfold,  and  almost  cried  again 
as  he  said  it.  "  I'm  not  much  in  the  habit  of  crying 
— I  don't  look  like  it,  do  I  ? — but  I  couldn't  help  it. 
The  child  took  out  his  little  pocket-handkerchief  and 
dried  my  eyes,  and  then  prepared  himself  for  the 
whipping.  And  I  whipped  him  as  I  never  did  be- 
fore, and  I  hope  in  God  shall  never  have  to  do  again. 
The  moment  it  was  over,  while  my  heart  was  like 
to  burst,  he  flmng  his  arms  around  my  neck  and  be- 
gan kissing  me.  '  I  will  never  make  you  cry  again, 
papa  !'  he  said. — He  has  kept  his  word,  and  since 
then  I  have  never  wondered  at  the  suffering  in  the 
world.  I  have  puzzled  my  metaphysical  brains  to 
the  last  gasp  about  the  origin  of  evil — I  don't  do  that 
now,  for  I  seem  to  understand  it — but,  since  then,  I 
have  never  troubled  myself  about  the  origin  of  suf- 
fering. I  don't  like  pain  a  whit  better  than  another, 
and  I  don't  bear  it  nearly  so  well  as  Helen,  but  I  vex 
neither  my  brain  nor  my  heart  as  to  God's  sending 
it.  I  knew  after  whipping  my  boy,  that  the  tears  the 
Lord  wept  over  Jerusalem  were  not  wept  by  him 
only,  but  by  the  Father  as  well.  Whoever  says  God 
cannot  suffer,  I  say  he  does  not  understand.  God 
ca?i  weep,  and  weeps  more  painful  tears  than  ours  ; 
for  he  is  God,  and  we  are  his  little  ones.     That  boy's 


THE    parson's    counsel.  369 

trouble  was  over  with  the  punishment,  but  my  heart 
is  sore  yet. 

"  It  comes  to  this,  that  the  suffering  you  see  around 
you,  hurts  God  more  than  it  hurts  you,  or  the  man 
upon  whom  it  falls  ;  but  he  hates  things  that  most 
men  think  little  of,  and  will  send  any  suffering  upon 
them  rather  than  have  them  continue  indifferent  to 
them.  Men  may  say,  '  We  don't  want  suffering  !  we 
don't  want  to  be  good  !  '  but  God  says,  'I  know  my 
own  obligations  !  and  you  shall  not  be  contemptible 
wretches,  if  there  be  any  resource  in  the  Godhead.' 
I  know  well  that  almost  all  the  mothers  in  my  con- 
gregation would,  hearing  what  I  have  just  told  you, 
call  me  a  cruel  father.  They  would  rather  have  me 
a  weak  one,  loving  my  childless.  They  would  rather 
their  child  should  be  foul  in  the  soul  than  be  made 
clean  through  suffering  !  I  know  they  would  !  But 
I  know  also  that  they  do  not  see  how  ugly  is  evil. 
And  that  again  is  because  they  are  not  clean  enough 
themselves  to  value  Tightness  above  rubies  !  Tell 
the  tale  your  own  way  to  your  workman-friend,  and 
may  God  help  him  to  understand  it !  The  God  who 
strikes,  is  the  God  whose  son  wept  over  Jerusalem." 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  whipt  the  darling  !  "  said  Bar- 
bara, scarcely  able  to  speak.  "  I  shall  love  him  more 
than  ever." 

"You  should  see  how  he  loves  his  father  !  "  said 
Helen.  "  His  father  is  all  his  talk  when  we  are  alone 
together.  He  sees  more  of  me  than  of  him  now,  but 
by  and  by  his  father  will  take  him  about  with  him." 

"And  then,"  said  Barbara,  "  all  his  talk  will  be  of 
you  ! " 

"  Yes  ;  it  is  the  way  of  the  child  !  " 
24 


370  THERE    AND    BACK. 


"And  of  the  whole  family  in  heaven  and  earth," 
rejoined  the  parson. 

Barbara  rose. 

"You'll  be  on  the   watch,''  said  Wingfold,    "for 
any  chance  for  me  of  serving  your  mother.?" 

"  I  will,"  replied  Barbara. 

The  next  morning  she  got  on  Miss  Brown,  and  rode 
to  the  forge,  where  Simon  made  her  always  welcome. 
It  was  sunshine  to  his  heart  to  see  her,  he  said.  She 
knew  that  Richard  was  to  be  there.  They  left  Miss 
Brown  in  the  smithy,  and  went  for  a  walk  together, 
during  which  Barbara  was  careful  to  follow  the  par- 
son's advice.  Their  talk  was  mostly  about  her  life 
in  New  Zealand.  Now  that  she  knew  God  more,  and 
believed  more  in  him,  she  was  more  able  to  set  forth 
her  history.  Feelings  long  vague  had  begun  to  put 
on  shapes  definite  and  communicable.  She  under- 
stood herself  better,  and  was  better  able  to  make 
Richard  understand  her.  And  in  Richard,  by  degrees, 
through  the  sympathy  of  affection,  was  growing  the 
notion  of  a  God  in  whom  it  would  not  be  hard  to 
believe.  He  ought  not  to  believe,  and  he  had  not 
believed  in  the  supposed  being  hitherto  presented  to 
him  as  God ;  now  he  saw  the  shape  of  a  God  in 
whom,  if  he  existed,  he  ought  to  believe.  But  he  had 
not  yet  come  to  long  that  he  should  exist,  to  desire 
him,  or  to  cry  out  in  the  hope  that  he  would  hear 
him.  His  hour  was  not  yet  come.  But  when  the 
day  of  darkness  arrived,  when  he  knew  himself  help- 
Jess,  there  would  be  in  his  mind  a  picture  of  the  God 
to  whom  he  must  cry  in  his  trouble — a  God  whose 
existence  would  then  be  his  only  need,  the  one 
desire  of  his  soul.  To  wake  the  seiise  of  this  eternal 
need,  present  though  unrecognized  under  every  joy, 


THE    PARSONS    COUNSEL.  37I 

was  the  final  cause  of  every  sorrow  and  pain  against 
which  Richard  rebelled — most  naturally  rebelled, 
knowing  neither  the  plague  of  a  heart  that  would 
but  could  not  be  lord  over  itself,  nor  of  a  nature  hate- 
fully imperfect  and  spotted,  yea,  capable  of  what 
itself  could  not  but  detest 

Naturally,  his  manners  were  growing  more  refined 
from  his  intercourse  with  the  gracious,  brave,  sym- 
pathetic, unconventional  creature,  so  strong  yet  so 
gentle,  so  capable  of  indignation,  so  full  of  love.  He 
was  gradually  developing  the  pure  humanity  that  lay 
beneath  the  rough  artisan.  He  was,  in  a  word,  be- 
coming what  in  the  kingdom  of  heaven  every  man 
must  be — a  gentleman,  because  more  than  a  gentle- 
man. 

All  this  time  Barbara  was  pulled  two  ways  :  for 
Richard's  sake  she  would  have  him  heir  to  the 
baronetcy;  for  her  own  she  would  be  rid  of  the 
shadow  of  having  sought  the  baronet  in  the  book- 
binder. But  more  and  more  the  asseveration  of  Lady 
Ann  gained  force  with  her — that  Richard  was  not  the 
heir.  She  had  greatly  doubted  her,  but  now  she  said 
to  herself:  "She  could  hardly  be  mistaken,  and  she 
cannot  have  lied."  The  consequence  was  that  she 
grew  yet  more  free,  more  at  home  with  Richard. 
She  listened  to  all  he  had  to  tell  her,  learning  of  him 
with  an  abandon  of  willingness  that  put  him  upon  his 
honor  to  learn  of  her  again.  And  he  did  learn,  as  I 
have  said,  a  good  deal — went  farther  than  he  knew 
in  the  way  of  true  learning. 

They  strolled  together  in  the  field  behind  the 
smithy,  within  sight  of  the  cottage,  for  an  hour  or 
so  ;  then  hearing  from  the  smithy  the  impatient 
stamping  of  Miss  Brown,  and  fearing  she  might  give 


11^ 


THERE    AND    BACK. 


the  old  man  trouble,  hastened  back.  Richard  brought 
out  the  mare.  Barbara  sprang  on  a  big  stone  by  the 
door,  and  mounted  without  his  help.  She  went 
straight  for  Wylder  Hall. 

As  they  were  walking  up  and  down  the  field 
Arthur  Lestrange  passed  on  foot,  saw  them,  and 
went  home  indignant. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

LADY     ANN      MEDITATES, 

It  would  have  been  difficult  for  Arthur  himself  to 
say  whether  in  his  heart  rage  or  contempt  was  the 
stronger,  when  he  saw  the  lady  he  loved  walking  in 
a  field,  turning  and  returning,  in  close  talk  with  the 
bookbinder-fellow.  Never  had  she  so  walked  and 
talked  with  him!  She  preferred  the  bookbinder's 
society  to  his — and  made  it  no  secret  that  she  did, 
for,  although  evidently  desirous  of  having  their  inter- 
view uninterrupted,  they  walked  in  full  view  of  the 
high  road  ! 

What  did  Barbara  mean  by  it  ?  He  could  not  treat 
her  as  a  child  and  lay  the  matter  before  Richard  !  If 
a  lady  showed  favor  to  a  man,  the  less  worthy  he 
was,  the  less  could  he  be  expected  to  see  the  unfit- 
ness of  the  thing.  Besides,  to  acknowledge  thus  any 
human  relation  between  Richard  and  either  of  them 
would  be  degrading.  It  was  scorn  alone  that  kept 
Arthur  from  hating  Richard.  For  Barbara,  he  at- 
tributed her  disregard  of  propriety,  and  the  very  pos- 
sibility of  her  being  interested  in  such  a  person,  to  the 
modes  of  life  in  the  half  savage  country  where  she 
had  been  born  and  reared — educated,  he  remarked  to 
himself,  he  could  not  say.  But  what  did  she  mean 
by  it }  The  worst  of  his  torment  was  that  the 
thought,  unreasonable  as  it  was,  would  yet  come — 
that  Richard  was  a  good-looking  fellow,  and  admira- 
tion, which  in   any  English   girl   would  have   been 


374  THERE    AND    BACK. 


rendered  impossible  by  his  vulgarity,  might  have  a 
share  in  her  enjoyment  of  his  shop-talk  about  books. 
The  idea  was  simply  disgusting  ! 

What  was  he  to  do.?  What  could  anyone  do.? 
The  girl  was  absolutely  uncontrolled  :  was  it  likely 
she  would  prove  controllable  ?  Would  she  mind  him, 
when  she  cared  no  more  for  his  stately  mother  than 
for  the  dairy-woman  !  How  could  such  a  bewitch- 
ing creature  so  lack  refinement  ?  The  more  he 
thought,  the  more  inexplicable  and  self-contradictory 
her  conduct  appeared.  Such  a  jewelled-humming- 
bird  to  make  friends  with  a  grubbing  rook  !  The 
smell  of  the  leather,  not  to  mention  the  paste  and 
glue,  would  be  enough  for  any  properly  sensitive 
girl !  Universally  fascinating,  why  did  she  not  cor- 
respond all  through  ?  Brought  out  in  London,  she 
would  be  the  belle  of  the  season  1  If  he  did  not 
secure  her,  some  poor  duke  would  pounce  on  her  ! 

But  again  what  was  he  to  do  ?  Must  he  bring 
scorn  on  himself  by  appearing  jealous  of  a  tradesman,' 
or  must  he  let  the  fellow  go  on  casting  his  greasy 
shadow  about  the  place  ?  As  to  her  being  in  love 
with  him,  that  was  preposterous  !  The  notion  was 
an  insult !  Yet  half  the  attention  she  gave  the  book- 
binder would  be  paradise  to  htm  !  He  yniist  put  a 
stop  to  it !  he  must  send  the  man  away  I  It  would 
be  a  pity  for  the  library  !  It  was  beginning  to  look 
beautiful,  and  would  soon  have  been  the  most  dis- 
tinguished in  the  county  :  Lord  Chough's  was  noth- 
ing to  it  !  But  there  were  other  bookbinders  as  good 
as  he  !  And  what  did  the  library  matter  !  What  did 
anything  matter  in  such  a  difficulty  I 

She  might  take  offence  !  She  would  be  sure  to 
suspect    why    the    fellow    was    sent    packing  I     She 


LADY    ANN    MEDITATES. 


375 


would  know  she  had  the  blame  of  ruining  the  libra- 
ry, and  the  bookbinder  as  well,  and  would  never 
enter  the  house  again  !  He  must  leave  the  thing 
alone — for  the  present  !  But  he  would  be  on  his 
guard  !  Against,  what,  he  did  not  plainly  tell  him- 
self. 

While  the  son  was  thus  desiring  a  good  riddance 
of  the  man  he  had  brought  into  the  house,  and  to 
whom  Barbara  was  so  much  indebted,  the  mother 
was  pondering  the  same  thing.  Should  the  man  re- 
main in  the  house  or  leave  it.''  was  the  question  with 
her  also; — and  if  leave  it,  on  what  pretext.?  She 
was  growing  more  and  more  uncomfortable  at  the 
possibilities.  The  possession  of  the  estate  by  one 
born  of  another  woman,  and  she  of  low  origin  ;  the 
subjection  in  which  they  would  all  be  placed  to  him 
as  the  head  of  the  family— a  man  used  to  the  low 
ways  of  a  trade,  a  man  dirty  and  greasy,  hardly  in 
his  right  place  at  work  in  the  library,  the  grandson 
of  a  blacksmith  with  brawny  arms  and  smutty  face 
— the  ideas  might  well  be  painful  to  her  ! 

Then  first  the  thought  struck  her,  that  it  must  be 
his  grandfather's  doing  that  he  was  in  the  house  ! 
and  there  he  was,  at  their  very  door,  eager  to  bear 
testimony  to  the  bookbinder  as  his  grandson  and 
heir  to  Mortgrange  !  Alas,  the  thing  must  be  a  fact, 
a  horrible  fact  !  All  was  over  ! — But  she  would  do 
battle  for  her  rights  !  She  would  not  allow  that  the 
child  was  found!  The  thing  was  a  conspiracy  to 
supplant  the  true  heir  !  How  ruinous  were  the  low 
tastes  of  gentlemen  !  If  Sir  Wilton  had  but  kept  to 
his  own  rank,  and  made  a  suitable  match,  nothing 
of  all  tliis  misery  would  have  befallen  them  !  If  her 
predecessor  had  been  a  lady,  her  son  would  have 


^']6  THERE    AND    BACK. 


been  a  gentleman,  and.  there  would  have  been  noth- 
ing to  complain  of  I  To  Lady  Ann,  her  feeling  had 
the  force  of  a  conviction,  that  the  son  of  Robina 
Armour  could  not,  in  the  nature  of  things  divinely 
ordained,  have  the  same  rights  as  her  sen.  Lady 
Ann's  God  was  the  head  of  the  English  anistocracy. 
There  was  nothing  selfish  that  Lady  Ann  was  not 
capable  of  wishing ;  there  was  nothing  selfish  she 
might  not  by  degrees  become  capable  of  doing.  She 
could  not  at  that  moment  commit  murder ;  neither 
could  Lady  Macbeth  have  done  so  when  she  was  a 
girl.  The  absurd  falsity  of  her  notions  as  to  her 
rights,  came  from  lack  of  love  to  her  neighbor,  and 
consequent  insensibility  to  his  claims.  At  the  same 
time  she  had  not  keen,  she  had  only  absorbing  feel- 
ings of  her  rights  ;  there  was  nothing  kecti  in  Lady 
Ann  ;  neither  sense  not  desire,  neither  hope  nor  fear, 
neither  joy  nor  sorrow,  neither  love  nor  hate.  Be- 
yond her  own  order,  beyond  indeed  her  own  circle 
in  that  order,  the  universe  hardly  existed.  An  age- 
long process  of  degeneration  had  been  going  on  in 
her  race,  and  she  was  the  result ;  she  was  well  born 
and  well  bred  for  feeling  nothing.  There  is  some- 
thing fearful  in  the  thought  that  through  the  genera- 
tion the  body  may  go  on  perfecting,  while  the  heart 
goes  on  degenerating  ;  that,  while  the  animal  beauty 
is  growing  complete  in  the  magic  of  proportion,  the 
indescribable  marvel  that  can  even  give  charm  to 
ugliness,  is  as  steadily  vanishing.  Such  a  woman, 
like  Branca  d'Oria  in  the  Inferno,  is  already  damned, 
and  only  seems  to  live.  Lady  Ann  was  indeed  born 
capable  of  less  than  most;  but  had  she  attempted  to 
do  the  little  she  could,  she  would  not  have  been 
where  she  was ;  she  would  have  been  toiling  up  the 


LADY    ANN    MEDITATES.  377 

hill  of  truth,  with  a  success  to  be  measured,  hke  the 
widow's  mite,  by  what  she  had  not. 

All  her  thoughts  were  now  occupied  with  the n'g-hfs 
of  her  son,  and  through  him  of  the  family.  Sir  Wil- 
ton had  been  for  some  time  ailing,  and  when  he 
went,  they  would  be  at  the  mercy  of  any  other  heir 
than  Arthur,  just  as  miserably  whether  he  were  the 
true  heir  or  an  impostor  :  the  one  was  as  bad  as  the 
other  from  her  point  of  view  !  For  the  right,  Lady 
Ann  cared  nothing,  except  to  have  it  or  to  avoid  it. 
The  law  of  the  land  was  to  be  respected  no  doubt, 
but  your  own  family — most  of  all  when  land  was 
concerned — was  worthier  still ! 

It  were  better  to  rid  the  place  of  the  bookbinder — 
but  how  ?  As  to  whether  he  was  the  legal  heir  or 
not,  she  would  rather  remain  ignorant,  only  that, 
assured  on  the  point,  she  would  better  understand 
how  to  deal  with  his  pretension  !  But  she.  could  not 
consult  Sir  Wilton,  because  she  suspected  him  of  a 
lingering  regard  for  the  dead  wife  which  would  nat- 
urally influence  his  feeling  for  the  live  son — if  live 
he  were  :  no  doubt  he  had  enjoyed  the  company  of 
the  low-born  woman  more  than  hers,  for  she,  a 
woman  of  society,  knew  what  was  right !  She  had 
reason  therefore  to  fear  him  prejudiced  for  any  pre- 
tender !  Arthur  and  he  got  on  quite  as  well  as  could 
be  expected  of  father  and  son — their  differences  never 
came  to  much  ;  but  on  the  other  hand  Sir  Wilton  had 
a  demoniacal  pleasure  in  frustrating  !  To  make  a 
man  he  disliked  furious  was  honey  and  nuts  to  Sir 
Wilton  ;  and  she  knew  a  woman  whose  disappoint- 
ment would  be  dearer  to  him  than  that  of  all  his 
enemies  together  !     It  was  better  therefore  that  he 


^yS  THERE    AND    BACK. 


should  have  no  hint,  and  especially  from  her,  of 
what  was  in  the  air  ! 

Lady  Ann  thought  herself  a  good  woman  because 
she  never  felt  interest  enough  to  be  spiteful  like  Sir 
Wilton  ;  yet,  very  strangely,  not  knowing  in  herself 
what  repentance  meant,  she  judged  him  capable  of 
doing  her  the  wrong  of  atoning  to  his  first  wife  for 
his  neglect  of  her,  by  being  good  to  her  child  ! 

Thinking  over  her  talk  with  Barbara,  she  could 
not,  after  all,  feel  certain  that  Richard  knew,  or  that 
he  had  incited  Barbara  to  take  his  part.  But  in  any 
case  it  was  better  to  get  rid  of  him  !  It  was  dangerous 
to  have  him  in  the  house  !  He  might  be  spending 
his  nights  in  trumping  up  evidence  !  At  any  moment 
he  might  appeal  to  Sir  Wilton  as  his  father  !  But  at 
the  worst,  he  would  be  unable  to  prove  the  thing 
right  off,  and  if  her  husband  would  but  act  like  a 
man,  they  might  impede  the  attempt  beyond  the 
possibility  of  its  success  ! 

One  comfort  was,  that,  she  was  all  but  confident, 
the  child  was  not  already  baptized  when  stolen  from 
Mortgrange  ;  neither  were  such  as  would  steal  chil- 
dren likely  to  have  them  baptized  ;  therefore  the  God 
who  would  not  allow  the  unbaptized  to  lie  in  his 
part  of  the  cemetery,  would  never  favor  his  succes- 
sion to  the  title  and  estate  of  Mortgrange  !  The  fact 
must  have  its  weight  with  Providence  ! — whom  Lady 
Ann  always  regarded  as  a  good  churchman  :  he 
would  never  take  the  part  of  one  that  had  not  been 
baptized  !  Besides,  the  fellow  was  sure  to  turn  out 
a  socialist,  or  anarchist,  or  positivist,  or  radical,  or 
something  worse  !  She  would  dispute  his  identity  to 
the  last,   and  assert  his  imposture  beyond  it  !     Her 


LADY    ANN    MEDITATES.  379 

duty  to  society  demanded  that  she  should  not  give 
in  ! 

Suddenly  she  remembered  the  description  her  hus- 
band had  given  her  of  the  ugliness  of  the  infant  : 
this  man  was  decidedly  handsome  !  Then  she  re- 
membered that  Sir  Wilton  had  told  her  of  a  membrane 
between  certain  of  his  fingers — horrible  creature  : 
she  must  examine  the  impostor ! 

Arthur  was  very  moody  at  dinner  ;  his  mother 
feared  some  echo  of  the  same  report  as  caused  her 
own  anxiety  had  reached  him,  and  took  the  first 
opportunity  of  questioning  him.  But  neither  of  Lady 
Ann's  sons  had  learned  such  faith  in  their  mother  as 
to  tell  her  their  troubles.  Arthur  would  confess  to 
none.  She  in  her  turn  was  far  too  prudent  to  disclose 
what  was  in  her  mind  :  the  folly  of  his  youth  might 
take  the  turn  of  an  unthinking  generosity  !  the  notion 
of  an  elder  brother  might  even  be  welcome  to  him  ! 

In  another  generation  no  questions  would  be 
asked !  Many  estates  were  in  illegal  possession  ! 
There  was  a  claim  superior  to  the  legal !  Theirs  was 
a  moral  claim  ! 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

LADY     ANN     AND     RICHARD. 

The  same  afternoon,  Richard  was  mending  the 
torn  title  of  a  black-letter  copy  of  Fox's  Book  of 
Martyrs.  Vixen  had  forgotten  her  former  fright,  and 
her  evil  courage  had  returned.  Opening  the  door  of 
the  library  so  softly  that  Richard  heard  nothing,  she 
stole  up  behind  him,  and  gave  his  elbow  a  great 
push  just  as,  with  the  sharpest  of  penknives,  he  was 
paring  the  edge  of  a  piece  of  old  paper,  to  patch  the 
title.  The  penknife  slid  along  the  bit  of  glass  he 
was  paring  upon,  and  cut  his  other  hand.  The  blood 
spouted,  and  some  of  it  fell  upon  the  title,  which  made 
Richard  angry  :  it  was  an  irremediable  catastrophe, 
for  the  paper  was  too  weak  to  bear  any  washing. 
He  laid  hold  of  the  child,  meaning  once  more  to  carry 
her  from  the  room,  and  secure  the  door.  Then  first 
Vixen  saw  what  she  had  done,  and  was  seized  with 
horror — not  because  she  had  hurt  "the  bear,"  but 
because  of  the  blood,  the  sight  of  which  she  could 
not  endure.  It  was  a  hereditary  weakness  on  Sir 
Wilton's  side.  One  of  the  strongest  men  of  his  family 
used  to  faint  at  the  least  glimpse  of  blood.  There 
was  a  tradition  to  account  for  it,  not  old  or  thin 
enough  to  cast  no  shadow,  therefore  seldom  alluded 
to.  It  was  not,  therefore,  an  ordinary  childish  dis- 
may, but  a  deep-seated  congenital  terror,  that  made 
Vixen  give  one  wavering  scream,  and  drop  on  the 


LADY    ANN    AND    RICHARD.  38 1 

floor.  Richard  thought  she  was  pretending-  a  faint 
in  moclcery  of  what  she  had  done,  but  when  he  took 
her  up,  he  saw  that  she  was  insensible.  He  laid  her 
on  a  couch,  rang  the  bell,  and  asked  the  man  to  take 
the  child  to  her  governess.  The  man  saw  blood  on 
the  child's  dress,  and  when  he  reached  the  school- 
room with  her,  informed  the  governess  that  she  had 
had  an  accident  in  the  library.  Miss  Malliver,  with 
one  of  her  accomplished  shrieks,  dispatched  him  to 
tell  Lady  Ann.  Coming  to  herself  in  a  few  minutes, 
Vixen  told  a  confused  story  of  how  the  bear  had 
frightened  her.  Lady  Ann,  learning  that  the  blood 
was  not  that  of  her  child,  came  to  the  conclusion 
that  Richard  had  played  upon  her  pecuharity  to  get 
rid  of  her,  for  Vixen,  incapable  of  truth,  did  not  tell 
that  she  was  herself  the  cause  of  the  wound  whence 
the  blood  had  made  its  appearance.  IMiss  Malliver, 
who  would  hardly  have  been  sorry  had  Vixen's 
throat  been  cut,  rose  in  wrath,  and  would  have 
swooped  down  the  stair  upon  Richard. 

"Leave  him  to  me,  Malliver,"  said  Lady  Ann,  and 
rising,  went  downi  the  stair.  But  the  moment  she 
entered  the  library,  and  saw  Richard's  hand  tied  up 
in  his  handkerchief,  she  bethought  herself  of  the 
happy  chance  of  satisfaction  as  to  whether  or  not  he 
was  web-fingered  :  the  absence  of  the  peculiarity 
would  indeed  prove  nothing,  but  the  presence  of  it 
would  be  a  warning  of  the  worst  danger  :  he  might 
have  had  it  removed,  but  could  not  have  contrived 
to  put  it  there  ! 

"What  have  you  done  to  yourself,  Mr.  Tuke  .^ " 
she  said,  making  a  motion  to  take  the  wounded  hand, 
from  which  at  the  same  time  she  shrank  with  inward 
disgust. 


382  THERE    AND    BACK. 


"Nothing  of  any  consequence,  my  lady,"  answered 
Richard,  who  had  risen,  and  stood  before  her.  "  I 
was  using  a  very  sharp  knife,  and  it  went  into  my 
hand.     I  hope  Miss  Victoria  is  better.?  " 

"There  is  nothing  much  the  matter  with  her," 
answered  her  ladyship.  "The  sight  of  blood  always 
makes  her  faint." 

"It  is  a  horrid  sight,  my  lady  !  "  rejoined  Richard, 
wondering  at  her  ladyship's  affability,  and  ready  to 
meet  any  kindness.  "When  I  was  at  school,  I  was 
terribly  affected  by  it.  One  boy  used  to  provoke  me 
to  fight  him,  and  contrive  that  I  should  make  his 
nose  bleed — after  which  he  could  do  what  he  liked 
with  me.  But  I  set  myself  to  overcome  the  weak- 
ness, and  succeeded." 

Lady  Ann  listened  in  silence,  too  intent  on  his  hands 
to  remark  at  the  moment  how  the  fact  he  mentioned 
bore  on  the  question  that  absorbed  her. 

"  Would  you  mind  showing  me  the  wound  ?  "  she 
said.      "I  am  something  of  a  surgeon." 

To  her  disappointment,  he  persisted  that  it  was 
nothing.  Because  of  the  peculiarity  she  would  gladly 
have  missed  in  them,  he  did  not  like  showing  his 
hands.  His  mother  had  begged  him  not  to  meddle 
with  the  oddity  until  she  gave  her  consent,  promis- 
ing a  good  reason  for  the  request  when  the  right 
time  should  arrive  ;  but  he  was  sensitive  about  it — 
probably  from  having  been  teased  because  of  it. 
His  comfort  was,  that  a  few  slits  of  a  sharp  knife 
would  make  him  like  other  people. 

Lady  Ann  was  foiled,  therefore  the  more  eager  : 
why  should  the  man  be  so  unwilling  to  show  his 
hands.' 

"Your  work  must  be  very  interesting  !  "  she  said. 


LADY    ANN    AND    RICHARD.  383 

"  I  am  fond  of  it,  my  lady,"  he  answered.  "  If  I 
had  a  fortune  left  me,  I  should  find  it  hard  to  drop  it. 
There  is  nothing  like  work — and  books — for  enjoying- 
life  !  " 

"I  daresay  you  are  right. — But  go  on  with  your 
work.  I  have  heard  so  much  about  it  from  Miss 
Wylder  that  I  should  like  to  sec  you  at  it." 

"I  am  sorry,  my  lady,  but  1  shall  be  fit  for  next 
to  nothing  for  a  day  'or  two  because  of  this  hand.  I 
dare  not  attempt  going  on  with  what  I  am  now 
doing." 

"Is  it  so  very  painful  ?  You  ought  to  have  it  seen 
to.     I  will  send  for  Mr.  Hurst." 

As  she  spoke,  she  turned  to  go  to  the  bell. 
Richard  had  tried  to  interrupt  her,  but  she  would  not 
listen.  He  now  assured  her  that  it  was  his  work  not 
his  hand  that  he  was  thinking  of;  and  said  that,  if 
Mr.  Lestrange  had  no  objection,  he  would  take  a 
short  holiday. 

"Then  you  would  like  to  go  home  !"  said  her 
ladyship,  thinking  it  would  be  so  easy  then  to  write 
and  tell  him  not  to  come  back — if  only  Arthur  could 
be  got  to  do  it. 

"  I  should  like  to  go  to  my  grandfather's  for  a  few 
day.s,"  answered  Richard. 

This  was  by  no  means  what  Lady  Ann  desired,  but 
she  did  not  see  how  to  oppose  it. 

"  Well,  perhaps  you  had  better  go,"  she  said. 

"If  you  please,  my  lady,"  rejoined  Richard,  "I 
must  see  Mr.  Lestrange  first.  I  cannot  go  without 
his  permission." 

"  I  will  speak  to  my  son  about  it,"  answered  Lady 
Ann,  and  went  away,  feeling  that  Richard  would  be 
a   dangerous   enemy.     She   did   not  hate  him  ;  she 


384  THERE    AND    BACK 


only  regarded  him  as  what  might  possibly  prove  an 
adverse  force  to  be  encountered  and  frustrated  be- 
cause of  her  family,  and  because  of  the  right  way  of 
things — that  those,  namely,  who  had  nothing  should 
be  kept  from  getting  anything.  In  the  meantime  the 
only  thing  clear  was,  that  he  had  better  be  got  out 
of  the  neighborhood  !  It  was  well  Sir  Wilton  had 
hardly  seen  the  young  man  ;  if  there  was  anything 
about  him  capable  of  rousing  old  memories,  it  vi'ere 
well  it  should  not  have  the  chance  !  Sir  Wilton  was 
not  fond  of  books,  and  it  could  be  no  great  pleasure 
to  him  to  have  the  library  set  to  rights  ;  he  was 
annoyed  at  being  kept  out  of  it,  for  he  liked  to  smoke 
his  cigar  there,  and  shuddered  at  the  presence  of  a 
working  man  except  in  the  open  air  :  she  was  certain 
he  would  feel  nowise  aggrieved  if  the  design  were 
abandoned  midway  !  The  only  person  she  feared 
would  oppose  Tuke's  departure  was  Arthur. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 


AND      ARTHUR. 


She  went  to  find  him,  told  him  what  had  happened 
to  the  young  man,  and,  feeling  her  way,  proposed 
that  he  should  go  to  his  grandfather's  for  a  few  days. 
Arthur  started.  Send  him  where  he  and  Barbara 
would  be  constantly  meeting  !  Must  he  forever  im- 
agine them  walking  up  and  down  that  field,  among 
the  dandelions  and  daisies  !  He  had  discovered,  he 
believed,  all  that  was  between  them,  but  was  not 
therewith  satisfied  :  she  had  found  out,  he  said  to  him- 
self, that  the  fellow  was  an  infidel,  did  not  believe  in 
God, or  a  resurrection — was  so  low  that  he  did  not  care 
to  live  forever,  and  she  was  trying  to  convert  him. 
Arthur  would  rather  he  remained  unconverted  than 
that  she  should  be  the  means  of  converting  him.  Nor 
indeed  would  he  be  much  injured  by  having  the 
growth  of  such  a  faith  as  Arthur's  prevented  in  him  : 
Arthur  prided  himself  in  showing  due  respect  to  the 
Deity  by  allowing  that  he  existed.  But  the  fellow  was 
too  clever  by  half,  he  said,  and  would  be  much  too 
much  for  her.  Any  theory  wild  enough  would  be 
attractive  to  her,  who  never  cared  a  pinhead  what 
the  rest  of  the  world  believed  !  She  had  indeed  a 
strong  tendency  to  pantheism,  for  she  expected  the 
animals  to  rise  again — a  most  unpleasant  notion  ! 
Doubtless  it  was  she  that  sought  his  company;  a 
fellow  like  that  could  not  presume  to  seek  hers  !  He 
25 


386  THKRE    AND    BACK. 

was  only  laughing  at  her  all  the  time  !  What  could 
an  animal  like  him  care  about  the  animals  :  he  had 
not  even  a  dog  to  love  !  He  would  710/  have  him  go 
to  his  grandfather's  !  he  would  a  thousand  times 
rather  give  up  the  library  !  There  should  be  no 
more  bookbinding  at  Mortgrangc  !  He  would  send 
the  books  to  London  to  him  !  It  would  he  de- 
grading to  allow  personal  feeling  to  affect  his  be- 
havior to  such  a  fellow  ;  he  should  have  the  work 
all  the  same,  but  not  at  Mortgrange  ! 

So  he  answered  his  mother  that  he  was  rather  tired 
of  him,  and  thought  they  had  had  enough  of  him  ; 
the  work  seemed  likely  to  be  spun  out  ad  infmiiiim, 
and  this  was  a  good  opportunity  for  getting  rid  of 
him.  He  was  sorry,  for  it  was  the  best  way  for  the 
books,  but  he  could  send  them  to  him  in  London, 
and  have  them  done  there  !  The  man,  he  understood, 
had  been  making  himself  disagreeable  too,  and  he 
did  not  want  to  quarrel  with  him  !  He  was  a 
radical,  and  thought  himself  as  good  as  anybody  :  it 
was  much  best  to  let  him  go.  Ue  had  at  first  liked 
him,  and  had  perhaps  shown  it  more  than  was 
good  for  the  fellow,  so  that  he  had  come  to  presume 
upon  it,  setting  it  down  to  some  merit  in  himself. 
Happily  he  had  retained  the  right  of  putting  an  end 
to  the  engagement  when  he  pleased  ! 

This  was  far  better  than  Lady  Ann  had  expeoted. 
Arthur  went  at  once  to  Richard,  and  speaking,  as  he 
thought,  unconcernedly,  told  him  they  found  it  in- 
convenient to  have  the  library  used  as  a  workshop 
any  longer,  and  must  make  a  change. 

Richard  was  glad  to  hear  it,  thinking  he  meant  to 
give  him  another  room,  and  said  he  could  work  just 
as  well  anywhere  else  :  he  wanted  only  a  dry  room 


RICHARD    AND    ARTHUR.  3S7 

with  a  fireplace  !  Arthur  told  him  he  had  arrang-cd 
for  what  would  be  more  agreeable  to  both  parties, 
namely,  that  he  should  do  the  work  at  home.  It 
would  cost  more,  but  he  was  prepared  for  that.  He 
might  go  as  soon  as  he  pleased,  and  they  would 
arrange  by  letter  how  the  books  should  be  sent — so 
many  at  a  time  ! 

Richard  spied  something  more  under  his  dismissal 
than  the  affair  with  iNIiss  Vixen  ;  but  he  was  too  proud 
to  ask  for  an  explanation  :  Mr.  Lestrange  was  in  the 
right  of  their  compact.  He  felt  aggrieved  notwith- 
standing, and  was  sorry  to  go  away  from  the  library. 
He  would  never  again  have  the  chance  of  restoring 
such  a  library  !  He  did  not  once  think  of  it  from  the 
point  of  gain  :  he  could  always  make  his  living  !  It 
was  to  him  a  genuine  pleasure  to  cause  any  worthy 
volume  to  look  as  it  ought  to  look  ;  and  to  make  a 
whole  straggling  library  of  books,  wasted  and  worn, 
put  on  the  complexion,  uniform,  and  discipline  of  a 
well-conditioned  company  of  the  host  of  heaven,  was 
at  least  an  honorable  task  !  For  what  are  books,  I 
venture  to  say,  but  an  army-corps  of  the  Lord  of  hosts, 
at  whose  command  are  troops  of  all  natures,  after  the 
various  regions  of  his  indwelling  !  Even  the  letter  is 
something,  for  the  dry  bones  of  books  are  every 
hour  coming  alive  to  the  reader  in  whose  spirit  is 
blowing  the  better  spirit.  Richard  himself  was  one 
of  such,  though  he  did  not  yet  know  there  was  a  better 
spirit.  Then  again,  there  were  not  a  few  of  the  books 
with  which  individually  he  was  sorry  to  part.  He 
had  also  had  fine  opportunity  for  study,  of  which  he 
was  making  good  use,  and  the  loss  of  it  troubled  him. 
He  had  read  some  books  he  would  hardly  otherwise 


388  THERE    AND    BACK. 


have  been  able  to  read,  and  had  largely  extended  his 
acquaintance  with  titles. 

He  was  sorry  too  not  to  see  more  of  Mr.  Wingfold. 
He  was  a  clergyman,  it  was  true,  but  not  the  least 
like  any  other  clergyman  he  had  seen  !  Richard  had 
indeed  known  nothing  of  any  other  clergyman  out 
of  the  pulpit ;  and  I  fear  most  clergymen  are  less 
human,  therefore  less  divine,  in  the  pulpit  than  out 
of  it !  Many  who  out  of  the  pulpit  appear  men,  are 
in  it  little  better  than  hawkers  of  old  garments,  the 
worse  for  their  new  patches.  Of  the  forces  in  action 
for  the  renovation  of  the  world,  the  sale  of  such  old 
clothes  is  one  of  the  least  potent.  They  do,  however, 
serve  a  little,  I  think,  even  as  the  rags  of  a  Neapolitan 
for  the  olives  of  Italy,  as  a  sort  of  manure  for  the 
young  olives  of  the  garden  of  God. 

But  his  far  vv'orst  sorrow  was  leaving  Miss  Wylder. 
That  was  a  pain,  a  keen  pain  in  his  heart.  For,  that 
a  woman  is  miles  above  him,  as  a  star  is  above  a 
marsh-light,  is  no  reason  why  a  man  should  not  love 
her.  Nay,  is  it  not  the  best  of  reasons  for  loving  her  ? 
The  higher  in  soul,  and  the  lowlier  in  position  he  is, 
the  more  imperative  and  unavoidable  is  it  that  he 
should  love  her;  and  the  absence  of  any  thought  in 
the  direction  of  marriage  leaves  but  the  wider  room 
for  the  love  infinite.  In  a  man  capable  of  loving  in 
such  fashion,  there  are  no  bounds  to  the  possibilities, 
no  limit  to  the  growth  of  love.  Richard  thought  his 
soul  was  full,  but  a  live  soul  can  never  be  full ;  it  is 
always  growing  larger,  and  is  always   being  filled. 

"Like  one  that  hath  been  stunned,"  he  went  about 
his  preparations  for  departure. 

"You  will  go  by  the  first  train  in  the  morning," 
said  Arthur,  happening  to  meet  him  in   the  stable- 


RICHARD    AND    ARTHUR.  389 

yard,  whither  Richard  had  gone  to  look  if  Miss  Brown 
was  in  her  usual  stall.  "  1  have  told  Robert  to  take 
you  and  your  tools  to  the  station  in  the  spring-cart." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  returned  Richard  ;  "I  shall  not 
require  the  cart.  I  leave  the  house  to-night,  and 
shall  send  for  my  things  to-morrow  morning.  1  have 
them  almost  ready  now." 

"  You  cannot  go  to  London  to-night !  " 

"I  am  aware  of  that,  sir." 

"Then  where  are  you  going.?     I  wish  to  know." 

"That  is  my  business,  sir." 

"You  have  no  cause  to  show  temper,"  said  Arthur, 
coldly. 

"  I  should  not  have  shown  it,  sir,  had  you  not  pre- 
sumed to  give  me  orders  after  dismissing  me,"  an- 
swered Richard. 

"I  have  not  dismissed  you  ;  I  mean  to  employ  you 
still,  only  in  London  instead  of  here,"  said  Arthur. 

"That  is  a  matter  for  fresh  arrangement  with  my 
father,"  rejoined  Richard,  and  left  him. 

Arthur  felt  a  shadow  cross  him— almost  like  fear  : 
he  had  but  driven  Richard  to  his  grandfather's  and 
had  made  an  enemy  of  him  !  Nor  could  he  feel  satis- 
fied with  himself;  he  could  not  get  rid  of  the  thought 
that  what  he  had  done  was  not  quite  the  thing  for  a 
gentleman  to  do.  His  trouble  was  not  that  he  had 
wronged  Richard,  but  that  he  had  wronged  himself, 
had  not  acted  like  his  ideal  of  himself.  He  did  not 
think  of  what  was  right,  but  of  what  befitted  a  gentle- 
man. Such  a  man  is  in  danger  of  doing  many  things 
unbefitting  a  gentleman.  For  the  measure  of  a  gentle- 
man is  not  a  man's  ideal  of  himself. 

His  uneasiness  grew  as  day  after  day  went  by,  and 
Barbara  did  not  appear  at  Mortgrange.      He  was  not 


39^  THERE    AND    BACK. 

aware  that  Richard  saw  no  more  of  her  than  himself. 
He  knew  that  he  was  at  his  g-randfather's  ;  he  had  him- 
self seen  him  at  work  at  the  anvil  ;  but  he  did  not 
know  that  the  hope  in  which  he  lingered  there  was 
vain. 

Richard  waited  a  week,  but  no  Barbara  came  to  the 
smithy.  He  could  not  endure  the  thought  of  g-oing 
away  without  seeing  her  once  more.  He  must  once 
thank  her  for  what  she  had  done  for  him  !  He  must 
let  her  know  why  he  had  left  Mortgrange. 

He  would  go  and  say  good-bye  to  the  clergyman  : 
from  him  he  might  hear  something  of  her  ! 

Wingfold  caught  sight  of  him  approaching  the 
house,  and  himself  opened  the  door  to  him.  Taking 
him  to  his  study,  he  made  him  sit  down,  and  offered 
him  a  pipe. 

"Thank  you,  sir  ;  I  don't  smoke,"  said  Richard. 

"Then  don't  learn.  You  are  better  without  it," 
answered  Wingfold,  and  put  down  his  own  pipe, 

"  I  came,"  said  Richard,  "  to  thank  you  for  your 
kindness  to  me,  and  to  ask  about  Miss  Wylder.  Not 
having  seen  her  for  a  long  time,  I  was  afraid  she 
might  be  ill.      I  am  going  away." 

There  was  a  tremor  in  Richard's  voice,  of  which 
he  was  not  himself  aware.  Wingfold  noted  it,  pitied 
the  youth  because  of  the  fuel  he  liad  stored  for  suffer- 
ing, and  admired  him  for  his  straightforwardness. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  say  you  are  not  likely  to  see  Miss 
Wylder,"  he  answered.      "  Her  mother  is  ill." 

"  I  hardly  thought  to  see  her,  sir.  Is  her  mother 
very  ill  ?  " 

"  Yes,  very  ill,"  answered  Wingfold. 

"With  anything  infectious.?  " 

"No.      Her  complaint  is  as  little  infectious  as  com- 


RICHARD    AND    ARTHUR.  39 1 

plaint  could  be  ;  it  is  just  exhaustion — absolute  pros- 
tration, mental  and  nervous.  She  is  too  weak  to 
think,  and  can't  even  feed  herself.  I  fear  her  daughter 
will  be  worn  out  waiting  on  her.  She  devotes  her- 
self to  her  mother  with  a  spirit  and  energy  I  never 
but  once  knew  equalled.  She  never  seems  tired, 
never  out  of  spirits.  I  heard  a  lady  say  she  couldn't 
have  much  feeling  to  look  cheerful  when  her  mother 
was  in  such  a  state  ;  but  the  lady  was  stupid.  She 
would  wait  on  her  own  mother  almost  as  devotedly 
as  Miss  Wylder,  but  with  such  a  lugubrious  coun- 
tenance that  her  patient  might  well  seek  refuge  from 
it  in  the  grave.  But  it  is  no  wonder  she  should  be  in 
good  spirits  :  it  is  the  first  time  in  her  life,  she  says, 
that  she  has  been  allowed  to  be  of  any  use  to  her 
mother  !  Then  she  is  not  suffering  pain,  and  that 
makes  a  great  difference.  But  more  than  all,  her 
mother  has  grown  so  tender  to  her,  and  so  grateful, 
foUovv'ing  her  constantly  about  the  room  with  her  eyes, 
that  the  girl  says  she  feels  in  a  paradise  of  which  her 
mother  is  the  tutelar  divinity,  raying  out  bliss  as  she 
lies  in  bed  !  Also  her  father  is  kinder  to  her  mother. 
Little  signs  of  tenderness  pass  between  them — a  thing 
she  has  never  known  before  !  How  could  she  be 
other  than  happy  1 — But  what  is  this  you  tell  me 
about  going  away  ?     The  library  cannot  be  finished  ? " 

Wingfoldhad  dilated  on  the  worth  of  Miss  Wylder, 
and  let  Richard  know  of  her  happiness,  out  of  genu- 
ine sympathy.  He  knew  that,  next  to  the  worship  of 
God,  the  true  worship  of  a  fellow-creature,  in  the  old 
meaning  of  the  word,  is  the  most  potent  thing  for 
deliverance. 

"No,  sir,"  answered  Richard  ;  "the  library  is  left 
in  mid-ocean  of  decay.     I  don't  know  why  they  have 


392  THERE    AND    BACK. 


dismissed  me.  The  only  thing-  clear  is,  that  they 
want  to  be  rid  of  me.  What  I  have  done  I  can't 
think.     There  is  a  little  g-irl  of  the  family " 

Here  he  told  how  Vixen  had  from  the  first  behaved 
to  him,  and  what  things  had  happened  in  consequence, 
the  last  more  particularly. 

"But,"  he  concluded,  "I  do  not  think  it  can  be 
that.      I  should  like  to  know  what  it  is." 

"Then  wait,"  said  Wingfold.  "  If  we  only  wait 
long-  enough,  every  reason'will  come  out.  You  know 
I  believe  we  are  not  going-  to  stop,  but  are  meant  to 
go  on  and  on  forever ;  and  I  believe  the  business  of 
eternity  is  to  bring  grand  hidden  things  out  into  the 
light ;  and  with  them  will  come  of  necessity  many 
other  things  as  well,  even  some,  I  daresay,  that  Ave 
count  trifles, — But  I  am  sorry  you're  going." 

"I  don't  see  why  you  should  be,  sir!  "  answered 
Richard,  his  look  taking  from  the  words  their  seem- 
ing rudeness. 

"Because  I  like  you,  and  feel  sure  we  should  un- 
derstand each  other  if  only  we  had  time,"  replied  the 
parson.  "  It's  a  grand  thing  to  come  upon  one  who 
knows  what  you  mean.  It's  so  much  of  heaven  be- 
fore you  get  there. — If  you  think  I'm  talking  shop,  I 
can't  help  it — and  I  don't  care,  so  long  as  you  believe 
I  mean  it.  I  would  not  have  you  think  it  the  Rev- 
erend Thomas  and  not  Thomas  himself  that  was  say- 
ing it." 

"I  should  never  say  you  talked  shop,  sir;  and  I 
don't  think  you  would  say  I  was  talking  shop  if  I 
expatiated  on  the  beauties  of  a  Grolier  binding ! 
You  would  see  I  was  not  talking  from  love  of  gain, 
but  love  of  beauty  !  " 

"Thank  you.     You  are  a  fair  man,  and  that  is 


RICHARD    AND    ARTHUR.  393 


even  more  than  nn  honest  man  !  I  don't  speak 
from  love  of  religion  ;  I  don't  know  that  I  do  love 
religion. " 

•■'I  don't  understand  you  now,  sir." 

"Look  here:  I  am  very  fond  of  a  well-bound 
book  ;  I  should  like  all  my  new  books  bound  in 
levant  morocco  ;  but  I  don't  care  about  it ;  I  could 
do  well  enough  without  any  binding  at  all." 

"  Of  course  you  could,  sir  !  and  so  could  I,  or  any 
man  that  cared  for  the  books  themselves." 

"Very  well  !  I  don't  care  about  religion  much, 
but  I  could  not  live  without  my  Father  in  heaven. 
I  don't  believe  anybody  can  live  without  Him." 

"I  see,"  said  Richard. 

He  thought  he  saw,  but  he  did  not  see,  and  could 
not  help  smiling  in  his  heart  as  he  said  to  him- 
self, "/have  lived  a  good  many  years  without 
Him  !  " 

Wingfold  saw  the  shadow  of  the  smile,  and  blamed 
himself  for  having  spoken  too  soon. 

"When  do  you  go.?"  he  asked. 

"I  think  I  shall  go  to-morrow.  I  am  at  my  grand- 
father's." 

"  If  I  can  be  of  use  to  you,  let  me  know." 

"I  will,  sir;  and  I  thank  you  heartily.  There's 
nothing  a  man  is  so  grateful  for  as  friendliness." 

"The  obligation  is  mutual,"  said  Wingfold. 


CHAPTER    XXXIX. 

MR.,    MRS.,   AND    MISS    WYLDER, 

A  NEW  experience  had  come  to  Mrs.  Wylder.  Her 
passion  over  the  death  of  her  son  ;  her  constant  and 
prolonged  contention  with  her  husband ;  her  protest 
against  him  whom  she  called  the  Almighty  ;  the 
public  consequence  of  the  same  ;  these,  and  the  re- 
action from  all  these,  had  resulted,  in  a  sudden  sink- 
ing of  the  vital  forces,  so  that  she  who  had  been  like 
a  burning  taery  furnace,  was  now  like  a  heap  of  cool- 
ing ashes  on  a  hearth,  with  the  daylight  coming  in. 
She  had  not  only  never  known  what  illness  was,  she 
did  not  even  know  what  it  was  to  feel  unfit.  Her 
consciousness  of  health  was  so  clear,  so  unmixed,  so 
unencountered,  that  she  had  never  had  a  conception, 
a  thought,  a  notion  of  what  even  that  health  was. 
Power  and  strength  had  so  constantly  seemed  part 
of  her  known  self,  that  she  never  thought  of  them  ; 
they  were  never  far  enough  from  her  to  be  seen 
by  her  ;  she  did  not  suspect  them  as  other  than 
herself,  or  dream  that  they  could  be  disjoined  from 
her.  She  could  think  only  in  the  person  of  a  strong 
woman  ;  she  was  aware  only  of  the  being  of  a  strong 
woman.  Even  after  she  had  been  some  time  help- 
less in  bed,  as  often  as  she  thought  of  anything  she 
would  like  to  do,  it  was  the  act  of  trying  to  get  up 
and  do  it,  that  made  her  aware  afresh  that  she  was 
no  more  the  woman  corresponding  to  her  conscious- 
ness of  herself.     For  her  consciousness  had   never 


MR.,    MRS.,    AND    MISS    WVLDER.  395 


yet  presented  her  as  she  really  was,  but  always 
through  the  conditional  and  non-essential,  so  that  by 
accidents  only  was  she  characterized  to  herself.  Now 
she  was  too  feeble  even  to  care  for  the  loss  of  her 
strength  ;  her  weakness  went  too  deep  to  be  felt  as 
an  oppression,  for  it  met  with  no  antagonism.  Her 
inability  to  move  was  now  no  prison,  and  her  attend- 
ant was  no  slave  with  tardy  feet,  but  an  angel  of 
God. 

For  her  Bab  was  npw  the  mother's  one  delight. 
Her  love  for  her  lost  twin  had  been  in  great  part 
favoritism,  partisanship,  defence,  opposition ;  her 
love  for  Barbara  was  all  tenderness  and  no  pride. 
In  her  self-lack  she  clung  to  her — as  lordly  dame, 
who  had  taken  her  castle  for  part  of  herself,  and  im- 
pregnable, but,  its  walls  crumbling  under  the  shot  of 
the  enemy,  found  herself  defenceless  before  her 
captors,  might  turn  and  clasp  her  little  maid,  sup- 
pliant for  protection.  Good  is  it  that  we  are  not 
what  we  seem  to  ourselves  "in  our  hours  of  ease," 
for  then  we  should  never  seek  the  Father  !  The  loss 
of  all  that  the  world  connis  first  things  is  a  thousand- 
fold repaid  in  the  mere  waking  to  higher  need.  It 
proves  the  presence  of  the  divine  in  the  lower  good, 
that  its  loss  is  so  potent  A  man  may  send  his  gaze 
over  the  clear  heaven,  and  suspect  no  God  ;  when 
the  stifling  cloud  comes  down,  folds  itself  about  him, 
shuts  from  him  the  expanse  of  the  universe,  he  be- 
gins to  long  for  a  hand,  a  sign,  some  shadow  of  pres- 
ence. Mrs.  Wylder  had  not  got  so  far  as  this  yet, 
but  she  had  sought  refuge  in  love  ;  and  what  is  the 
love  of  child,  or  mother,  or  dog,  but  the  love  of 
God,  shining  through  another  being — which  is  a 
being  just  because  he  shines  through  it.     This  was 


396  THERE    AND    BACK. 


the  one  important  result  of  her  ilhiess,  that,  finding' 
refuge  in  the  love  of  her  daughter,  she  loved  her 
daughter.  The  next  point  in  her  eternal  growth 
would  be  to  love  the  God  vi^ho  made  the  child  she 
loved,  and  whose  love  shone  upon  her  through  the 
child.  By  nature  she  was  a  strong  woman  whom 
passion  made  weak.  It  sucked  at  her  will  till  first  it 
hardened  it  to  a  more  selfish  determination,  then 
pulped  it  to  a  helpless  obstinacy.  The  persistence 
that  goes  with  inclination  has  its  force  only  from  the 
weakness  of  pride  and  the  mean  worship  of  self;  it 
is  the  opposite  of  that  free  will  which  is  the  reflex  of 
the  divine  will,  and  the  ministering  servant-power  to 
all  freedom,  which  resists  and  subdues  the  self  of 
inclination,  and  is  obedient  only  to  the  self  of  duty. 
Where  the  temple  of  God  has  no  windows,  earth- 
quake must  rend  the  roof,  that  the  sunlight  may 
enter.  Barbara's  mother  lay  broken  on  her  couch 
that  the  spirit  of  the  daughter  might  enter  the  soul 
of  her  mother — and  with  it  the  spirit  of  him  who, 
in  the  heart  of  her  daughter,  made  her  that  which 
she  was. 

Her  illness  had  lasted  a  month,  when  one  day  her 
husband,  at  Barbara's  prayer,  coming  to  see  her,  she 
feebly  put  out  her  hand  asking  for  his,  and  for  a 
moment  the  divine  child  in  the  man  opened  its 
heavenly  eyes.  He  took  the  offered  hand  kindly, 
faltered  a  gentle-sounding  commonplace  or  two,  and 
left  her  happier,  with  a  strange  little  bird  fluttering 
in  his  own  bosom.  There  are  eggs  of  all  the  heavenly 
birds  in  our  bosoms,  and  the  history  of  man  is  the 
incubation  and  hatching  of  these  eggs. 

She  began  to  recover,  but  the  recovery  was  a  long 
one.     As  soon  as  she  thought  her  well  enougli,  Bar- 


MR.,    MRS.,    AND    MISS    WYLDER.  397 

bara  told  her  that  Mr.  VVingfold  had  been  to  inquire 
after  her  almost  every  day,  and  asked  whether  she 
would  not  like  to  see  him.  Mrs.  Wylder  was  in  a 
quiescent  condition,  non-combatant,  involving  no 
real  betterment,  occasioned  only  by  the  absence  of 
impulse.  But  such  a  condition  gives  opportunity 
for  the  good,  the  gentle,  the  loving,  to  be  felt,  and 
so  recognized.  The  sufferer  resembles  a  child  that 
has  not  been  tempted,  whose  trial  is  yet  to  come. 
With  recovery,  fresh  claim  will  be  put  in  by  the 
powers  of  good.  This  claim  will  be  resisted  by  old 
habit,  resuming  its  force  in  the  return  of  physical  and 
psychical  health, — and  then  comes  the  tug  of  war. 
For  no  one  can  be  saved,  as  he  who  knows  his  mas- 
ter would  be  saved,  without  the  will  being  supreme 
in  the  matter,  without  the  choosing  to  fulfil  all  right- 
eousness, to  resist  the  wrong,  to  do  the  right.  Wing- 
fold  never  built  much  on  bed-repentance.  The  aphor- 
ism of  the  devil  sick  and  the  devil  well  is  only  too 
true.  But  he  welcomed  the  fresh  opportunity  for  a 
beginning.  He  knew  that  pain  and  sickness  do  rub 
some  dirt  from  the  windows  toward  the  infinite, 
and  that  things  of  the  old  unknown  world  whence 
we  came,  do  sometimes  look  in  at  them,  a  moment 
now,  and  a  moment  then,  waking  new  old  things 
that  lie  in  every  child  born  into  the  world.  I  seem 
to  see  the  great  marshes  where  the  souls  go  wander- 
ing about  after  the  bog-fires  ;  a  kiss  blown  from  the 
walls  of  the  city  comes  wavering  down  among  them  ; 
it  flits  hither  and  thither  with  the  dead-lights  ;  it  finds 
a  soul  with  a  spot  on  which  it  can  alight ;  it  settles 
there,  and  kisses  it  alive.  God  is  the  God  of  patience, 
and  waits  and  waits  for  the  child  who  keeps  him 
waiting  and  will  not  open  the  door. 


398  THERE    AND    BACK. 


Wingfold  went  to  see  her,  but  took  good  care  to 
press  nothing  upon  her.  He  let  her  give  him  the 
lead.  She  spoke  of  her  weakness,  and  the  parson 
drew  out  her  moan.  She  praised  her  Barbara,  and  the 
parson  praised  her  again  in  words  that  opened  the 
mother's  eyes  to  new  beauties  in  her  daughter.  She 
mentioned  her  weariness,  and  the  parson  spoke  of 
the  fields  and  the  soft  wind  and  the  yellow  shine  of 
the  buttercups  in  the  grass.  Her  heart  was  gently 
drawn  to  the  man  whose  eyes  were  so  keen,  whose 
voice  was  so  mellow  and  strong,  and  whose  words 
were  so  lovely  sweet,  saying  the  things  that  were 
in  her  own  heart,  but  would  not  come  out. 

One  day  he  proposed  to  read  something,  and  she 
consented.  I  will  not  say  what  he  read,  for  I  would 
avoid  waking  controversy  as  to  fitness.  He  thought 
he  knew  what  he  was  about.  The  good  in  a  true  book, 
he  would  say,  is  the  best  protection  against  what 
may  not  be  so  good  in  it ;  its  wrong  as  well  as  its 
right  may  wake  the  conscience  :  the  thoughts  of  a  book 
accuse  and  excuse  one  another.  In  saying  so,  he 
took  the  true  reader  for  granted;  to  an  untrue  reader 
the  truth  itself  is  untrue.  The  general  sense  of  honor, 
he  would  say,  has  been  stimulated  not  a  little  by  the 
story  of  the  treachery  of  Jael.  Nor-  w^as  it  any  won- 
der he  should  succeed  in  interesting  Mrs.  Wylder,  for 
she  had  a  strong  brain  as  well  as  a  big  heart.  More 
than  half  her  faults  came  of  an  indignant  sense  of 
wrong.  She  had  passionately  loved  her  husband 
once,  but  he  had  soon  ceased  even  tlie  show  of 
returning  her  affection, 

And  to  be  wroth  with  one  we  love 
Doth  work  like  madness  in  the  brain. 


MR.,    MRS.,    AXD    MISS    WYLDKR.  399 

would  have  her  taug:ht,  a  struggle  continued  to  her 
fortieth  year,  she  was  now  at  length  a  pupil  in  an- 
other school,  where  the  schoolroom  was  her  bed, 
the  book  of  Quiet  her  first  study,  her  two  attendants 
a  clergyman  and  her  own  daughter,  and  her  one 
teacher  God  himself.  In  that  schoolroom,  the  world 
began  to  open  to  her  a  little.  Among  men  who 
could,  without  seeming  to  aim  at  it,  make  another 
think,  I  have  not  met  the  equal  of  Wingfold.  His 
mode  was  that  of  the  open-hearted  apostle,  who  took 
men  by  guile.  He  called  out  the  thoughts  lurking  in 
their  souls,  and  set  them  dealing  with  those  thoughts, 
not  with  him  :  they  were  slow  to  discover  that  he  was 
a  divine  musician,  playing  upon  the  holy  strings  of 
their  hearts  ;  they  thought  the  tunes  came  alive  in  their 
own  air — -as  indeed  they  did,  only  another  hand 
woke  them.  To  work  thus,  he  had  to  lay  bare  not 
a  little  of  his  own  feeling,  but  where  it  was  brotherly 
to  show  feeling,  he  counted  it  unchristian  to  hide  it. 
Feeling  by  itself,  however,  that  came  and  went  with- 
out correspondent  action,  he  counted  not  only  weak 
and  mawkish,  but  tending  to  the  devilish. 

Barbara  was  happy  all  day  long.  Life  seemed 
about  to  blossom  into  great  flowers  of  scarlet  and 
gold.  She  had  learned  from  the  parson  that  the 
bookbinder  was  gone,  but  was  at  the  time  too  busy 
and  too  anxious  to  question  him  as  to  thecause  of  his 
going.  Till  her  mother  was  well,  it  was  enough  to 
know  that  Richard  had  wanted  to  see  her,  doubtless 
to  tell  her  all  about  it.  She  often  thought  of  him, 
what  he  had  done  for  her,  and  what  she  had  tried  to 
do  for  him,  and  was  certain  he  would  one  day  be- 
lieve in  God.  She  did  not  suspect  any  quarrel  with 
the  people  at  Morlgrange.     She  thought  perhaps  the 


400  THERE    AND    BACK. 


secret  concerning-  him  had  come  out,  and  he  did  not 
choose  to  remain  in  a  house  the  head  of  which,  if  Lady- 
Ann's  tale  was  true,  had  so  bitterly  wronged  his 
mother.  As  soon  as  she  was  able  she  would  go  and 
hear  of  him  from  his  grandfather  !  There  was  no 
hurry  !  She  would  certainly  see  him  again  before 
long  !  And  he  would  be  sure  to  write  !  It  did  not 
occur  to  her  that  a  man  in  his  position  would  hardly 
venture  to  approach  her  again,  without  some  re- 
newed approach  on  her  part ;  and  for  a  long  time 
she  was  nowise  uneasy. 

The  hope  alive  in  Wingfold  made  him  a  true  con- 
soler ;  and  the  very  sight  of  him  was  a  strength  to 
Barbara.  She  regarded  him  with  profound  rever- 
ence, and  his  wife  as  most  enviable  of  women  :  could 
she  not  learn  from  his  mouth  the  rights  of  a  thing, 
the  instant  she  opened  hers  to  ask  them?  Barbara 
did  not  know  how  much  the  sympathy,  directness, 
and  clear  common  sense  of  Helen  had  helped  to 
keep  awake,  support,  and  nourish  the  insight  of  her 
husband.  She  did  not  know,  good  and  powerful  as 
Wingfold  must  have  been  had  he  never  married,  how 
much  wiser,  more  useful,  and  more  aspiring  he  had 
grown  because  Helen  was  Helen,  and  his  wife,  sent 
as  certainly  as  ever  angel  in  the  old  time.  The  one 
fault  she  had  in  the  eyes  of  her  husband  was,  that 
she  was  so  indignant  with  affectation  or  humbug  of 
any  sort,  as  hardly  to  give  the  better  thing  that  might 
coexist  with  it,  the  needful  chance. 

So  long  as  evil  comes  to  the  front,  it  appears  an 
interminable,  unconquerable  thing.  But  all  the  time 
there  may  be  a  change,  positive  as  inexplicable,  at 
the  very  door.  How  is  it  that  a  child  begins  to  be 
good?     Upon  what  fulcrum   rests  the  knife-edge  of 


MR.,    MRS.,    AND    MISS    WYLDER. 


alteration  ?  As  undistinguishable  is  the  moment  in 
which  the  turn  takes  place  ;  equally  perplexing  to 
keenest  investigation  the  part  of  the  being  in  which 
the  renovation  commences.  Who  shall  analyze 
repentance,  as  a  force,  or  as  a  phenomenon  !  You 
cannot  see  it  coming  !  Before  you  know,  there  it  is, 
and  the  man  is  no  more  what  he  was  ;  his  life  is 
upon  other  lines  !  The  wind  hath  blown.  We  saw 
not  whence  it  came,  or  whither  it  went,  but  the  new 
birth  is  there.  It  began  in  the  spiritual  infinitesimal, 
where  all  beginnings  are.  The  change  was  begun  in 
Mrs.  Wylder.      But  the  tug  of  her  war  was  to  come. 

Lady  Ann  had  not  once  been  to  see  her  since  first 
calling  when  she  arrived.  Naturally  she  did  not 
take  to  her.  In  the  eyes  of  Lady  Ann,  Mrs.  Wylder 
was  insufferable — a  vulgar,  arrogant,  fierce  woman, 
purse-proud  and  ignorant.  But  a  keen  moral  eye 
would  have  perceived  Lady  Ann  vastly  inferior  to  Mrs. 
Wylder  in  everything  right-womanly.  Lady  Ann 
was  the  superior  by  the  changeless  dignity  of  her 
carriage,  but  her  self-assured  pre-eminence  was  offen- 
sive, and  her  drawling  deliberation  far  more  objec- 
'tionable  than  Mrs.  Wylder's  abrupt  movements,  or 
the  rough  and  ready  speech  that  accompanied  her 
eager  dart  at  the  gist  of  a  matter.  Even  the  look 
that  would  kill  a  man  if  it  could,  never  roused  such 
hate  as  sprang  to  meet  the  icy  stare  of  her  passionless 
ladyship.  Many  a  man  with  no  admiration  of  the 
florid,  would  have  sought  refuge  in  Mrs.  Wylder's 
plump  face,  vivid  with  an  irritable  humanity,  from 
the  moveless  pallor  of  Lady  Ann's  delicately  formed 
cheek,  and  the  pinched  thinness  of  her  fine,  poverty- 
stricken  nose.  Oh,  those  pinched  nostrils,  the  very 
outcry  of  inward  meanness  !    will  they  ever  open  to 


26 


402  THERE    AND    BACK. 


the  full  tide  of  a  surging  breath  ?  What  vital  inter- 
weaving of  gladness  and  grief  will  at  length  make 
strong  and  brave  and  unselfish  the  heart  that  sent 
out  those  nostrils  !  Less  than  a  divine  shame  will 
never  make  it  the  heart  of  a  fearless, bountiful,  redeem- 
ing woman. 

Mrs.  Wylder  was  nowise  annoyed  that  Lady  Ann 
did  not  call  a  second  time.  She  did  not  care  enough 
to  mind,  and  preferred  not  seeing  her.  They  had  in 
common  as  near  nothing  as  humanity  permitted. 
"Stuckup  kangaroo.?"  she  called  her. 

"I'll  lay  you  my  best  sapphire,"  she  said  to  her 
daughter,  in  the  hearing  of  Wingfold,  whose  presence 
she  had  forgotten,  "that  for  the  last  three  hundred 
years  not  a  woman  of  her  family  has  suckled  her  own 
young  !  " 

Neither  mother  nor  daughter  had  shown  the  least 
deference  to  Lady  Ann's  exalted  position.  The  first 
movement  of  her  dislike  to  Mrs.  Wylder  was  caused 
by  her  laughing  and  talking  as  unrestrainedly  in  her 
presence  as  in  that  of  the  doctor's  wife,  who  happened 
to  be  in  the  room  when  Lady  Ann  entered.  But  now 
that  danger,  not  to  say  ruin,  appeared  in  the  distance, 
she  must,  for  the  sake  of  her  son,  wronged  by  his 
father's  having  married  another  woman  before  his 
mother,  neglect  no  chance  !  Arthur  had  been  to 
Wylder  Hall  repeatedly,  but  Barbara  had  not  seen 
him  !  She  must  go  herself  and  pay  some  court  to 
the  young  heiress  I  She  was  anxious  also  to  learn 
whether  any  chagrin  was  concerned  in  her  con- 
tinuous   absence  from   Mortgrange. 

Barbara  received  her  heartily,  and  they  talked  a 
little.  Lady  Ann  imagining  herself  very  pleasing  :  she 
rarely    condescended    to    make    herself    agreeable, 


MR.,    MRS.,    AND    MISS    WYLDER.  403 

and  measured  her  success  by  her  exertion.  She 
found  Barbara  in  such  good  spirits  that  she  pro- 
nounced her  heartless— not  to  her  son,  or  to  any  but 
herself,  who  would  not  have  come  near  her  but  foi 
the  money  to  be  got  with  her.  She  begged  her, 
notwithstanding,  for  the  sake  of  her  complexion,  to 
leave  her  mother  an  hour  or  two  now  and  then, 
and  ride  over  to  Mortgrange.  Incessant  watching 
would  injure  her  health,  and  health  was  essential 
to  beauty!  Barbara  protested  that  nothing  ever 
hurt  her  ;  that  she  was  the  only  person  she  knew  fit  to 
be  a  nurse,  because  she  was  never  ill.  When  her 
Ladyship,  for  once  oblivious  of  her  manners,  grew 
importunate,  Barbara  flatly  refused, 

"You  must  pardon  me.  Lady  Ann,"  she  said;  "I 
cannot,  and  I  will  not  leave  my  mother." 

Then  Lady  Ann  thought  it  might  be  wise  to  make 
a  little  more  of  the  mother  to  whom  she  seemed  so 
devoted.  She  had  imagined  the  daughter  of  the 
coarse  woman  must  feel  toward  her  as  she  did,  and 
suspected  a  coarser  grain  in  the  daughter  than  she 
had  supposed,  because  she  was  not  disgusted  with 
her  mother.  She  did  not  know  that  eyes  of  love  see 
the  true  being  where  other  eyes  see  only  its  shadow; 
and  shadows  differ  a  good  deal  from  their  bodies. 

But  meeting  Mr.  Wylder  in  the  avenue  as  she  re- 
turned, and  stopping  her  carriage  to  speak  to  him, 
Lady  Ann  changed  her  mind,  and  resolved  to  curry 
favor  with  the  husband  instead  of  the  wife.  For 
hitherto  she  had  scarcely  seen  Mr.  Wylder,  and  knew 
about  him  only  by  unfavorable  hearsay  ;  but  she  M'as 
charmed  with  him  now,  and  drew  from  him  a  prom- 
ise to  go  and  dine  at  Mortgrange. 

Bab  went  singing  back  to  her  mother,  who  was 


404  THERE    AND    BACK. 


never  so  ill  that  she  did  not  like  to  hear  her  voice. 
She  could  not  always  bear  it  in  the  room,  but  outside 
she  was  never  tired  of  it.  So  Bab  went  about  the 
house  singing  like  a  mavis.  But  she  never  passed  a 
servant,  male  or  female,  without  ceasing  her  song  to 
say  a  kind  word  ;  and  her  mother,  who,  now  that 
she  had  got  on  a  little,  lay  listening  with  her  keenest 
of  ears,  knew  by  the  checks  and  changes  of  Bab's 
song,  something  of  what  was  going  on  in  the  house. 
If  one  asked  Bab  what  made  her  so  happy,  she 
would  answer  that  she  had  nothing  to  make  her  un- 
happy ;  and  there  was  more  philosophy  in  the 
answer  than  may  at  first  appear.  For  certainly  the 
normal  condition  of  humanity  is  happiness,  and  the 
thing  that  should  be  enough  to  make  us  happy  is 
simply  the  absence  of  anything  to  make  us  unhappy. 

"Everything,"  she  would  answer  another  time, 
"  is  making  me  happy." 

"I  think  I  am  happiness,"  she  said  once. 

How  could  she  naturally  be  other  than  happy,  see- 
ing she  came  of  happiness  !  "II  lieto  fattore,"  says 
Dante;    "whose  happy-making  sight,"  says  Milton. 

Mr.  Wylder  went  and  dined  with  Sir  Wilton  and 
Lady  Ann.  The  latter  did  her  poor  best  to  please 
him,  and  was  successful.  It  had  always  been  an 
annoyance  to  Mr.  Wylder  that  his  wife  was  not  a 
lady.  In  the  bush  he  did  not  feel  it ;  but  now  he 
saw,  as  well  as  knew,  wherein  she  was  inferior,  and 
did  not  see  wherein  she  excelled.  It  was  the  more 
consolation  to  him  that  Lady  Ann  praised  his 
daughter,  her  beauty,  her  manners,  her  wit — praised 
her  for  everything,  in  short,  that  she  thought  hers, 
and  for  some  things  she  thought  were  not  hers.  But 
she  hinted  that  it  would  be  of  the  greatest  benefit  to 


MR.,    MRS.,    AND    MISS    WYLDER. 


405 


Barbara  to  have  the  next  season  in  London.  The 
girl  had  met  nobod}'-,  and  might,  in  her  ignorance 
and  innocence,  being  such  an  eager,  impetuous, 
warm-hearted  creature,  with  her  powers  of  discrimina- 
tion of  course  but  little  cultivated,  make  unsuitable 
friendships  that  would  lead  to  entanglement ;  while, 
well  chaperoned,  she  might  become  one  of  the  first 
ladies  in  the  county.  She  took  care  to  let  her  father 
know  at  the  same  time,  or  think  he  knew,  that, 
although  her  son  would  be  only  a  baronet,  he  would 
be  rich,  for  the  estates  were  in  excellent  condition 
and  free  of  encumbrance  ;  and  hinted  that  there  was 
now  a  fine  chance  of  enlarging  the  property,  neigh- 
boring land  being  in  the  market  at  a  low  price. 

Mr.  Wylder  had  indeed  hoped  for  a  higher  match, 
but  Lady  Ann,  being  an  earl's  daughter,  had  influence 
with  him.  The  remaining  twin  was  so  delicate  that 
it  was  very  doubtful  if  he  would  succeed  :  if  he  did 
not,  and  land  could  be  had  between  to  connect  the 
two  properties  of  Mortgrange  and  Wylder,  the  estate 
would  be  far  the  finest  in  the  county  ;  when,  as  Lady 
Ann  hinted,  means  might  be  used  to  draw  down 
the  favor  of  Providence  in  the  form  of  a  patent  of 
nobility. 

To  Lady  Ann,  London  was  the  centre  of  love-mak- 
ing, and  Arthur,  she  said  to  herself,  would  show  to 
better  advantage  there  than  in  the  country.  The 
place  where  she  had  herself  been  nearest  to  falling  in 
love,  was  a  ball-room  :  the  heat  apparently  had  half 
thawed  her. 

Mr.  Wylder  thought  Lady  Ann  was  right,  and  the 
best  thing  for  Barbara  would  be  to  go  to  London  : 
Lady  Ann  would  present  her  at  court,  and  she  would 
doubtless  be  the  belle  of  the  season.      Her  chance 


4o6  THERE    AND    BACK. 

would  be  none  the  worse  of  making  a  better  match 
than  with  Arthur  Lestrange. 

It  may  seem  odd  that  a  Hke  reflection  did  not  occur 
to  Lady  Ann  :  far  more  eligible  men  than  her  son 
might  well  be  drawn  to  such  a  bit  of  sunshine  as 
Barbara;  but  just  what  in  Barbara  was  most  attrac- 
tive, Lady  Ann  was  least  capable  of  appreciating. 


CHAPTER  XL. 


IN     LONDON. 


It  was  into  the  first  of  the  London  fogs  of  the  sea- 
son that  Richard,  after  a  slow  parhamentary  journey, 
got  out  of  his  third  class  carriage,  at  the  great  dim 
station.  He  took  his  portmanteau  in  one  hand  and. 
his  bag  of  tools  in  the  other,  and  went  to  look  for  an 
omnibus.  How  terribly  dull  the  streets  were  !  and 
how  terribly  dull  and  commonplace  all  inside  him  ! 
Into  the  far  dark,  the  splendor  of  life,  Barbara, 
had  vanished  !  Various  memories  of  her,  now  this 
look,  now  that,  now  this  attire,  now  that— a  certain 
button  half  torn  from  her  riding  habit— the  feeling  of 
her  foot  in  his  hand  as  he  lifted  her  to  Miss  Brown's 
back— would  enter  his  heart  like  the  proclamation  of 
a  queen  on  a  progress  through  her  dominions.  The 
way  she  drove  the  nails  into  her  mare's  hoof;  the 
way  she  would  put  her  hand  on  his  shoulder  as  she 
slid  from  the  saddle;  the  commanding  love  with 
which  she  spoke  to  the  great  animal,  and  the  way 
Miss  Brown  received  it ;  the  sweet  coaxing  respect 
she  showed  his  blacksmith-grandfather  ;  the  tone  of 
her  voice  when  she  said  God  ;—-a.  thousand  attend- 
ant shadows  glided  in  her  queen  procession,  one 
after  the  other  in  single  file,  through  his  brain,  and 
his  heart,  and  his  every  power.  He  forgot  the  omni- 
bus, and  went  tramping  through  the  dreary  streets 
with  his  portmanteau  and  a  small  bag  of  tools— he 


408  THERE    AND    BACK. 


had  sent  home  his  heavier  things  before — thinking 
ever  of  Barbara,  and  not  scorning  himself  for  think- 
ing of  her,  for  he  thought  of  her  as  true  lady  herself 
would  never  scorn  to  be  thought  of  by  honest  man. 
No  genuine  unselfish  feeling  is  to  be  despised  either 
by  its  subject  or  its  object.  That  Barbara  was  lovely 
was  no  reason  why  Richard  should  not  love  her  ! 
that  she  was  rich  was  no  reason  why  he  should  for- 
get her  !  She  came  into  his  life  as  a  star  ascends 
above  the  horizon  of  the  world  :  the  world  cannot 
say  to  it,  "Go  down,  star."  Yea,  Richard's  star 
raised  him  as  she  rose.  In  her  presence  he  was  at 
once  rebuked  and  uplifted.  She  was  a  power  within 
him.  He  could  not  believe  in  God,  but  neither  could 
he  think  belief  in  such  a  God  as  she  believed  in 
degrading.  He  said  to  himself  that  everything  de- 
pended on  the  kind  of  God  believed  in  ;  and  that  the 
kind  of  God  depended  on  the  kind  of  woman.  He 
wondered  how  many  ideas  of  God  there  might  be, 
for  every  one  who  believed  in  him  must  have  a  dif- 
ferent idea.  "Some  of  them  must  be  nearer  right 
than  others  !  "  he  said  to  himself — nor  perceived  that 
he  was  beginning  to  entertain  the  notion  of  a  real 
God.  For  he  saw  that  the  notions  of  the  best  men 
and  women  must  be  convergent,  and  was  not  fir 
from  thinking  that  such  lines  must  point  to  some 
object,  rather  than  an  empty  centre  :  the  idea  of  the 
best  men  and  women  must  be  a  believable  idea, 
might  be  a  true  idea,  might  therefore  be  a  real  exist- 
ence. He  had  not  yet  come  to  consider  the  fact, 
that  the  best  of  men  said  he  knew  God  ;  that  God 
was  like  himself,  only  greater ;  that  whoever  would 
do  what  he  told  him  should  know  that  God,  and 
know  that  he  spoke  the  trutli   concerning  him  ;  that 


IN    LONDON.  409 


he  had  come  from  him  to  witness  of  him  that  he  was 
truth  and  love.  Richard  had  indeed  started  on  a 
path  pointing  thitherward,  but  as  yet  all  concerning 
the  one  necessary  entity  was  vaguest  speculation 
with  him.  He  did  feel,  however,  that  to  give  in  to 
Barbara  altogether  would  not  make  him  a  believer 
such  as  Barbara.  On  the  other  hand,  he  was  yet  far 
from  perceiving  that  no  man  is  a  believer,  let  him 
give  his  body  to  be  burned,  except  he  give  his  will, 
his  life  to  the  Master.  No  man  is  a  behever  with 
whom  he  and  his  Father  are  not  first  ;  no  man,  in  a 
word,  who  does  not  obey  him,  that  is,  who  does  not 
do  what  he  said,  and  says.  It  seems  preposterous 
that  such  definition  should  be  necessary;  but  thou- 
sands talk  about  him  for  one  that  believes  in  him  ; 
thousands  will  do  what  the  priests  and  scribes  say 
he  commands,  for  one  who  will  search  to  find  what 
he  says  that  he  may  do  it — who  will  take  his  orders 
from  the  Lord  himself,  and  not  from  other  men  claim- 
ing either  knowledge  or  authority.  A  man  must 
come  up  to  the  Master,  hearken  to  his  word,  and  do 
as  he  says.  Then  he  will  come  to  know  God,  and 
to  know  that  he  knows  him. 

When  he  stopped  thinking  of  Barbara,  all  was 
dreary  about  Richard.  But  he  did  not  once  say  to 
himself,  "She  does  not  love  me  !  "  did  not  once  ask, 
"  Does  she  love  me  ?  "  He  said,  "  She  cares  for  me  ; 
she  is  good  to  me  !  I  wish  I  believed  as  she  does, 
that  I  might  hope  to  meet  her  again  in  the  house  of 
the  one  Father  !  " 

It  was  Saturday  night,  and  he  had  to  go  through  a 
weekly  market,  a  hurrying,  pushing,  loitering,  jos- 
tling crowd,  gathered  thick  about  the  butchers'  and 
fishmongers'  shops,  the  greengrocers'  barrows,   and 


4IO  THERE    AXD    BACK. 


the  tra)'S  upon  wheels  with  things  laid  out  for  sale. 
Suddenly  a  face  flashed  upon  him,  and  disappeared. 
He  was  not  sure  that  it  was  Alice's,  but  it  suggested 
Alice  so  strongly  that  he  turned  and  tried  to  overtake 
it.  Impeded  by  his  luggage,  however,  which  caught 
upon  hundreds  of  legs,  he  soon  saw  the  attempt 
hopeless.  Then  with  pain  he  remembered  that  he 
had  not  her  address,  and  did  not  know  how  to  com- 
municate with  her.  He  longed  to  learn  why  she 
had  left  him  without  a  word,  what  her  repeated  avoid- 
dance  of  him  meant;  far  more  he  desired  to  know 
where  she  was  that  he  might  help  her,  and  how  she 
fared.  But  Barbara  was  her  friend  !  Barbara  knew 
her  address  !  He  would  ask  her  to  send  it  him  ! 
He  hardly  thought  she  would,  for  she  was  in  the 
secret  of  Alice's  behavior,  but  joy  to  think,  it  would 
be  a  reason  for  writing  to  her  !  His  heart  gave  a 
bound  in  his  bosom.  Who  could  tell  but  she  might 
please  to  send  him  the  fan-wind  of  a  letter  now  and 
then,  keeping  the  door,  just  a  chink  of  it,  open  be- 
tween them,  that  the  voice  of  her  slave  might  reach 
her  on  the  throne  of  her  loveliness.  He  walked  the 
rest  of  the  way  with  a  gladder  heart ;  he  was  no 
longer  without  a  future ;  there  was  something  to  do, 
and  something  to  wait  for  !  Days  are  dreary  unto 
death  which  wrap  no  hope  in  their  misty  folds. 

His  uncle  and  aunt  received  him  with  more 
warmth  than  he  had  ever  known  them  show.  They 
were  in  good  spirits  about  him,  for  they  had  all  the 
time  been  receiving  news  of  him  and  Barbara,  with 
not  a  word  of  Alice,  from  old  Simon.  Jane's  heart 
swelled  with  the  ambition  that  her  boy  should  as  a 
working-man  gain  the  love  of  a  well-born  girl,  and 
reward  her  by  making  her  my  lady. 


IN    LONDON.  411 

I  do  not  think  Mrs.  Tuke  could  have  loved  a  son 
of  her  own  body  more  than  this  son  of  her  sister  ; 
but  she  was  constantly  haunted  with  a  vague  uneasi- 
ness about  the  possible  consequences  to  herself  and 
her  husband  of  what  she  had  done,  and  the  obstacles 
that  might  rise  to  prevent  his  restoration  ;  and  this 
uneasiness  had  its  share  both  in  repressing  the  show 
of  her  love,  and  in  making  her  go  to  church  so  reg- 
ularly. Her  pleasure  in  going  was  not  great,  but 
she  was  not  the  less  troubled  that  Richard  did  not 
care  about  going.  She  was  still  in  the  land  of  bul- 
locks and  goats  ;  she  went  to  church  with  the  idea 
that  she  was  doing  something  for  God  in  going.  It 
is  always  the  way.  Until  a  man  knows  God,  he 
seeks  to  obey  him  by  doing  things  he  neither  com- 
mands nor  cares  about ;  while  the  things  for  the  sake 
of  which  he  sent  his  son,  the  man  regards  as  of 
little  or  no  consequence.  What  the  son  says  about 
them  he  takes  as  a  matter  of  course  for  him  to  say, 
and  for  himself  to  neglect. 

Mrs.  Tuke  noted,  the  next  day,  that,  as  often  almost 
as  he  was  still,  a  shadow  settled  on  Richard's  face, 
and  he  Jooked  lost  and  sad  ;  but  it  only  occurred  to 
her  that  of  course  he  must  miss  Barbara,  never  that 
he  cherished  no  hope  such  as  she  would  have  counted 
hope.  She  took  it  almost  as  an  omen  of  final  success 
when  in  the  evening  he  asked  her  if  she  would  not 
like  him  to  go  to  church  with  her.  He  felt  as  if  in 
church  he  would  be  nearer  Barbara,  for  he  knew 
that  now  she  went  often.  But  alas,  while  there  he 
sat,  he  felt  himself  drifting  farther  and  farther  from 
her  !  The  foolish  utterances  of  the  parson  made  him 
deeply  regret  that  he  had  gone.  While  he  believed, 
or  at  least  was  willing  to  believe,  that  they  misrep- 


THERE    AND    BACK. 


resented  Christianity,  they  awoke  all  his  old  feelings 
of  instinctive  repulsion,  and  overclouded  his  dis- 
crimination. Almost  as  little  could  he  endure  the 
unnature  as  the  untruth  of  w^hat  he  heard.  It  had 
no  ring  of  reality,  no  spark  of  divine  fire,  no  appeal- 
ing radiance  of  common  sense,  little  of  any  verity  at 
all.  There  w^as  in  it,  as  nearly  as  possible,  nothing 
at  all  to  mediate  between  mind  and  mind,  between 
truth  and  belief,  between  God  and  his  children.  The 
clergyman  was  not  a  hypocrite — far  from  it !  He 
was  in  some  measure  even  a  devout  man.  But  in 
his  whole  presentation  of  God  and  our  relation  to  him, 
there  was  neither  thought  nor  phrase  germane  to  sun- 
rise or  sunset,  to  the  firmament  or  the  wind  or  the 
grass  or  the  trees  ;  nothing  that  came  to  the  human 
soul  as  having  a  reality  true  as  that  of  the  world  but 
higher ;  as  holding  with  the  life  lived  in  it,  with  the 
hopes  and  necessities  of  the  heart  and  mind.  If  "  the 
hope  of  the  glory  of  God"  must  be  fashioned  in  like 
sort,  then  were  the  whole  affair  of  creation  and  re- 
demption both  dull  and  desperate.  There  was  no 
glow,  no  enthusiasm  in  the  man — neither  could  there 
be,  with  the  notions  he  held.  His  God  suggested  a 
police  magistrate — and  not  a  just  one. 

Richard  would  gladly  have  left  the  place,  and 
wandered  up  anddovi'n  in  the  drizzle  until,  the  service 
over,  his  mother  should  appear  ;  but  for  her  sake  he 
sat  out  the  misery. 

"The  man,"  he  said  to  himself,  "does  not  give 
us  one  peg  on  which  to  hang  the  love  of  God  that 
he  tells  us  we  ought  to  feel  !  Love  a  God  like  that ! 
If  he  were  as  good  as  my  mother,  I  would  love  him  ! 
But  we  have  all  to  look  out  to  protect  ourselves  from 
him  !     Mr.    Parson,  there's    no   such   being   as  you 


IN    LONDON,  413 

jabber  about  !  It  puzzles  me  to  think  what  my 
mother  gets  from  you  !  " 

He  had  written  his  letter  to  Barbara,  and  when 
they  came  out  he  posted  it.  A  long-,  long  time  of 
waiting  followed;  but  no  waiting  brought  any  an- 
swer. Lady  Ann  had  dropped  a  hint,  and  Mr.  Wylder 
had  picked  it  up,  a  hint  delicate,  but  forcible  enough 
to  make  him  do  what  he  had  never  done  before — 
keep  an  outlook  on  the  letters  that  came  for  his 
daughter.  When  Richard's  arrived,  it  did  not  look 
to  him  that  of  a  gentleman.  The  writing  was  good, 
but  precise;  it  was  sealed  with  red  wax,  but  the  im- 
pression w^assunk  :  a  proper  seal  had  not  been  used  ! 
Especially  where  his  own  family  was  concerned,  Mr. 
Wylder  was  not  the  most  delicate  of  men  :  he  opened 
the  letter,  and  in  it  found  what  he  called  a  rigmarole 
of  poetry  and  theology  !  "Confound  the  fellow  !  " 
he  said  to  himself.  Lady  Ann  did  well  to  warn 
him  !  There  should  be  no  more  of  this  !  The  scatter- 
brain  took  after  her  mother  !  He  would  give  it  her 
hot! 

But  he  neither  gave  it  her  hot,  nor  gave  her  the 
letter;  he  did  not  say  a  word.  He  feared  the  little 
girl  he  pretended  to  protect,  and  knew  that  if  he  en- 
tered the  lists  with  her,  she  would  be  too  much  for 
him.  But  he  did  not  understand  that  the  mean  in 
him  dared  not  confront  the  noble  in  his  child.  So 
Richard's  letter  only  had  it  hot ;  it  went  into  the  fire, 
and  Bab  never  read  the  petition  of  her  poor  friend. 

The  next  morning  Richard  went  to  the  shop,  and 
fell  to  the  first  job  that  came  to  his  hand.  He  ac- 
quainted his  father  with  Lestrange's  proposal  in  regard 
to  the  library  :  Mr.  Tuke  would  have  him  accept  it. 

"You  shall  have  all  it  brings,"  he  said. 


414  THERE    AND    BACK. 


"  I  don't  want  the  money  !  "  returned  Richard. 

"But  I  want  the  honor  of  the  thing,"  replied 
his  uncle.  "You  answered  the  young  gentleman 
sharply  :  you  had  better  let  me  write  !  " 

Richard  made  no  objection.  He  would  gladly  keep 
the  door  open  to  any  place  where  the  shadow  of 
Barbara  might  fall,  and  was  willing  therefore  to  pocket 
the  offence  of  his  causeless  dismissal.  But  no  notice 
was  taken  of  Tuke's  letter,  and  a  gulf  of  negation 
seemed  to  yawn  between  the  houses. 

Thus  was  initiated  a  dreary  time  for  Richard. 
Now  first  he  began  to  know  what  unhappiness  was. 
The  seeming  loveless  weather  that  hung  over  the 
earth  and  filled  the  air,  was  in  joyless  harmony  with 
his  feelings.  But  had  his  trouble  fallen  in  a  more 
genial  season,  it  would  have  been  worse.  He  had 
never  been  with  Barbara  in  the  winter,  and  it  did  not 
seem  so  unnatural  to  be  without  her  now.  Had  it 
been  summer,  all  the  forms  of  earth  and  air  would 
have  brought  to  him  the  face  and  voice  and  motion 
of  Barbara  ;  and  yet  the  soul  would  have  been  gone 
from  them.  The  world  would  have  been  worse  dead 
then  than  now  in  the  winter.  Barbara  had  been  the 
soul  of  it — more  than  a  sun  to  it. 

He  could  not,  however,  dead  as  the  world  seemed, 
remain  a  moment  indoors  after  his  work  was  done. 
Whatever  sort  the  weather,  out  he  must  go,  often  on 
the  Thames,  heedless  of  cold  or  wind  or  rain.  His 
mother  grew  anxious  about  him,  attributed  his  unrest 
to  despair,  and  feared  she  might  have  to  tell  him  her 
secret.  She  recoiled  from  setting  free  what  she  had 
kept  in  prison  for  so  many  years.  In  her  own  mind 
she  had  settled  his  coming  of  age  as  the  term  of  his 
humiliation,  and  she  would  gladly  keep  to  it.     She 


IN    LONDON.  4  I  5 


shrunk  from  losing  him,  from  breaking  up  the  happi- 
ness that  lay  in  seeing  him  about  the  house.  But 
that  her  husband  had  insisted  on  accustoming  them- 
selves to  live  without  him,  she  would  hardly  have 
consented  to  his  late  absence.  She  shrunk  also  from 
the  measures  necessary  to  reinstate  him,  and  from  the 
commotion  those  measures  must  occasion.  It  was 
so  much  easier  to  go  on  as  they  were  doing  !  and 
delay  could  not  prejudice  his  right  !  In  fact,  most  of 
the  things  that  made  her  take  the  baby,  were  present 
still,  making  her  desire  to  keep  the  youth.  A  day 
would  come  when  she  must  part  with  him,  but  that 
day  was  not  yet !  She  dreaded  uncaging  her  secret, 
because  of  the  change  it  must  work,  whether  im- 
mediate action  were  taken  or  not.  She  never  sus- 
pected that  anyone  knew  or  surmised  it  but  herself, 
or  that  she  had  to  beware  of  any  tongue  but  her  own. 
Her  husband  left  the  matter  entirely  to  her.  It  was 
her  business,  he  said,  from  the  first,  and  he  would 
let  it  be  hers  to  the  last. 


CHAPTER  XLI. 


NATURE  AND    SUPERNATURE. 


But  Richard  soon  began  to  recover  both  from  the 
separation  and  from  his  disappointment  in  regard  to 
his  letter.  He  was  satisfied  that  whatever  might  be 
the  cause  of  her  silence,  it  came  from  no  fault  in 
Barbara.     Nothing  ever  shook  his  faith  in  her. 

And  soon  he  found  that  he  looked  now  upon  the 
vi^orld  with  eyes  from  which  a  veil  had  been  with- 
drawn. Barbara  gone,  mother  Earth  came  nigh  to 
comfort  her  child.  He  had  always  delighted  in  the 
beauty  of  the  world — in  what  shows  of  earth  and  air 
were  to  be  seen  in  London.  The  sunset  that  filled  as 
with  a  glowing  curtain  the  end  of  some  street  where 
he  walked,  would  go  on  glowing  in  his  heart  when  it 
left  the  street.  Even  in  winter  he  would  now  and 
then  go  out  to  see  the  sunrise,  and  see  it  ;  and  from 
the  street  might  now  and  then,  at  rare  times,  be  be- 
held a  dappling  and  streaking,  a  mottling  and  mass- 
ing of  clouds  on  the  blue.  The  fog  of  the  London 
valley,  and  the  smoke  of  the  London  chimneys,  did 
not  always,  any  more  than  the  cares  and  sorrows  and 
sins  of  its  souls,  blot  out  its  heaven  as  if  it  had  never 
looked  on  the  earth.  But  he  had  learned  much  since 
he  went  to  the  country  ;  he  had  gone  nearer  to 
Nature,  and  seen  that  in  her  lap  she  carried  many 
more  things  than  he  knew  of;  and  now  that  Barbara 
was  gone,  the  memories  of  Nature  came  nearer  to 


NATURE    AND    SUPERNATURE.  417 

him  :  he  remembered  her  and  was  glad.  Soon  he 
began  to  find  that,  both  as  regards  Nature  and  those 
whom  we  love,  absence  is,  for  very  nearness,  often 
better  than  presence  itself.  He  had  been  used  to 
think  and  talk  of  Nature  either  as  an  abstraction,  or 
as  the  personification  of  a  force  that  knew  nothing, 
and  cared  for  nothing,  was  nobody,  was  nothing  ; 
now  it  gradually  came  to  him,  and  gained  upon  him 
ere  he  knew,  first  that  the  things  about  him  wore 
meanings,  and  held  them  up  to  him,  then  that  some- 
thing was  thinking,  something  was  meaning  the 
things  themselves,  and  so  moving  thoughts  in  him, 
that  came  and  went  unforeseen,  unbidden.  Thoughts 
clothed  in  things  were  everywhere  about  him,  over 
his  head,  under  his  feet,  and  in  his  heart  ;  and  as 
often  as  anything  brought  him  pleasure,  either  through 
memory  or  in  present  vision,  it  brought  Barbara  too  ; 
and  she  seemed  their  maker,  when  she  was  but  one  of 
the  fair  company,  the  lady  of  the  land.  Everything 
beautiful  turned  his  face  to  the  more  beautiful,  more 
precious,  diviner  Barbara.  With  each  new  sense 
of  loveliness,  she  floated  up  from  where  she  lay, 
ever  ready  to  rise,  in  the  ocean  of  his  heart.  She 
was  the  dweller  of  his  everywhere  ! 

He  knew  that  Barbara  did  not  make  these  things  ; 
it  only  seemed  as  if  she  made  them  because  she  was 
the  better  joy  of  them  :  did  not  the  fact  show  how 
the  fiction  of  a  God  might  have  sprung  up  in  the  minds 
that  had  no  Barbara  to  look  like  the  maker  of  the 
loveliness  ?  But  Barbara  was  there  already,  known 
and  loved.  The  mind  did  not  invent  Barbara.  And 
again,  why  should  the  mind  want  any  one  to  look 
like  a  maker,  an  indweller,  an  ingeniuer — to  use  a 
word  of  Shakspere's  invention.''  Yet  again,  why 
27 


THERE    AND    BACK. 


should  the  thought  of  Barbara  suggest  a  soul,  that  is, 
a  causing,  informing  presence,  to  these  things  ?  Was 
there  a  meaning  in  them  ?  How  did  they  come  to 
have  thiit  meaning?  Could  it  be  that,  having  come 
out  of  nothing — the  mind  of  man,  and  all  the  things, 
out  of  the  same  nothing,  they  responded  enough  to 
each  other  for  the  man  to  find  his  own  reflex  where- 
ever  he  pleased  to  look  for  it?  Only,  if  man  and 
Nature  came  both  out  of  nothing,  why  should  they 
not  be  nothing  to  each  other?  why  should  not  man 
be  nothing  to  himself?  As  it  was,  one  nothing, 
having  no  thought,  meant  the  same  the  other  nothing 
meant,  having  thought  ! — and  hence  came  all  the 
beauty  of  the  world  !  And  once  again,  if  these  things 
meant  nothing  but  what  the  mind  put  into  them — its 
own  thought,  namely,  of  them— they  did  not  really 
mean  anything,  they  were  only  imagined  to  mean  it  ; 
and  why  should  he,  if  but  for  a  moment,  imagine 
Barbara  at  the  root  of  nothing?  And  why  should  he 
not,  seeing  she  was  herself  nothing?  Or  was  he  to 
consent  to  be  fooled,  and  act  as  if  there  was  some- 
thing where  he  knew  there  was  nothing  ? 

The  truth  of  Richard's  love  appeared  in  this,  that  he 
was  more  able  now  to  see  the  other  side  of  a  thing,  to 
start  objection  to  his  own  idea  from  the  side  of  one 
who  thought  differently. 

"If  I  feel,"  he  would  say  to  himself,  "  as  if  these 
things  meant  something,  and  conclude  that  they  only 
mean  me,  being  the  body  to  me,  who  am  the  soul  of 
them  ;  and  still  more  if  I  conclude  that  the  sum  of 
them  is  the  blind  cause  of  me  ;  then,  when  I  grow 
sick  of  myself,  finding  no  comfort,  no  stay  in  myself 
for  myself,  and  know  that  I  need  another,  say, 
another  self,   then  the  seeming  sympathy  that  Nature 


NATURE    AND    SUPERNATURE.  419 

offers  me  is  the  merest  mockery  !  It  is  only  my 
own  self — my  self  gone  behind  and  peeping  round  a 
corner,  grinning  back  sympathy  at  me  from  its  sick- 
ening death-mask  !  Why  should  man  need  another 
if  he  came  from  nothing  ?  But  he  came  from  a 
father  and  mother:  man  needed  the  woman:  will 
not  that  explain  the  thing?  No;  for  even  the  rela- 
tion itself  needs  to  be  comforted  and  sustained  and 
defended  !  " 

Why  was  there  so  much,  and  most  of  all  in  himself, 
for  which,  as  Richard  was  beginning  to  understand, 
even  a  Barbara  could  not  suffice  ?  Why  also  did  her 
sufficiency  depend  so  much  on  her  faith  in  an  all- 
sufficient  ?  And  why  was  there  so  often  such  a  gulf 
betwixt  the  two  that  seemed  made  for  each  other  ? 
Ah !  they  were  made  for  each  other  only  in  the 
general!  For  the  individual,  Nature  did  not  care; 
she  had  no  time  !  Then  how  was  it  that  he  cared  for 
Nature?  If  Nature  meant  anything,  was  an  intelli- 
gence, a  sort  of  God,  why  should  he,  the  individual, 
who  loved  as  an  individual,  was  a  blessing  or  curse 
to  himself  as  an  individual — why  should  he  care 
anything  for  one  who  loved  only  in  the  general  ? 
Could  a  man  love  in  general  ?  Yes  ;  he  himself  loved 
his  kind  and  sought  to  deliver  them  from  superstition. 
But  that  was  because  he  could  think  of  them  as  a 
multitude  of  individuals.  If  he  had  never  loved 
father,  mother,  or  friend,  would  he  have  loved  in 
the  general  ?  Would  crowds  of  men  and  women 
have  awaked  love  in  him  ?  If  so,  then  the  bigger 
crowd  must  always  move  the  greater  love  !  No ; 
it  is  from  the  individual  we  go  to  the  many. 
Love  that  was  only  in  the  general,  that  cared  for  the 
nation,  the  race,  and  let   the  individual  perish,  could 


420  THERE    AND    BACK. 


not  be  love.  He  would  be  no  God  who  cared  only 
for  a  world  or  a  race.  The  live  conscious  individual 
man  could  not  love  or  worship  him  !  And  if  no  in- 
dividual worshipped,  where  would  be  the  worship  of 
the  crowd.  Still  less  could  a  vague  creator  of  masses, 
that  knew  nothing  of  individuals,  being  himself  not 
individual,  be  worthy  to  be  called  God  !  Demon  he 
might  be — never  God  I  But  if  God  were  a  person, 
an  individual,  and  so  loved  the  individual  ! — ah,  then 
indeed  ! — Barbara  believed  that  such  a  God  lived  all 
about  and  in  us  !  Mr.  Wingfold  said  he  was  too  great 
to  prove,  too  near  to  see,  but  the  greater  and  the 
nearer,  the  more  fit  to  be  loved  !  There  were  things 
against  it !  Nature  herself  seemed  against  it,  for, 
lovely  as  she  was,  she  did  awful  things !  Could 
Nature  have  come  from  one  source,  and  God  be 
another  source  from  which  came  man  ?  He  was  too 
near  Nature,  too  much  at  home  with  her,  to  believe 
it.  Could  it  be  one  Nature  that  made  all  the  lovely 
things,  and  another  Nature  that  decreed  their  fate  ? 
That  also  he  could  not  believe  :  they  and  their  fate 
must  be  from  one  hand,  or  heart,  or  will  !  He  could 
but  hope  there  might  be  someway  of  reconciling  the 
terrible  dissonnance  between  Nature  and  Barbara's 
God  !  If  there  was  such  a  way,  if  their  contradiction 
was  only  in  seeming,  then  the  very  depth  of  their 
unity  might  be  the  cause  of  their  seeming  discord  ! 

Something  in  this  way  the  mind  of  Richard  felt 
and  thought  and  saw  and  doubted  and  speculated. 
Then  he  would  turn  to  the  ancient  story — still 
because  "  Barbara  said." 

The  God  Barbara  believed  in  was  like  Jesus  Christ ! 
— not  at  all  like  the  God  his  mother  believed  in  ! 
Jesus  was  one  that   could  be   loved:  he  could  not 


NATURE    AND    SUPERNATURK.  421 

have  come  to  reveal  such  a  God  as  his  mother's,  for 
he  was  no  revelation  of  that  kind  of  a  God  !  He  vi^as 
gentle,  and  cared  for  the  individual  !  And  he  said  he 
loved  the  Father  !  But  he  was  his  son,  and  a  good 
son  might  love  a  bad  father.  Yes,  but  could  a  bad 
God  have  a  good  son  ?  No  ;  the  son  of  God  must  be 
the  revelation  of  his  father  ;  such  as  the  Son  is,  just 
such  and  no  other  must  the  Father  be;  there  cannot 
but  be  harmony  between  the  beings  of  the  two ! 

In  very  truth  there  must  appear  schism  in  Nature, 
yea,  schism  in  God  himself,  until  we  see  that  the 
ruling  Father  and  the  suffering  Son  are  of  one  mind, 
one  love,  one  purpose  ;  that  in  the  Father  the 
Son  rules,  in  the  Son  the  Father  suffers  ;  that 
with  the  Son  the  other  children  must  suffer  and 
rise  to  i--;ie.  To  Richard's  eyes  there  was  schism 
every\.  .ere,  no  harmony,  no  right,  no  concord,  no 
peac-i !  And  yet  all  science  pointed  to  harmony,  all 
imagination  thirsted  for  it,  all  conscience  commanded 
it !  all  music  asserted  and  prophesied  it !  all  progress 
was  built  on  the  notion  of  it !  all  love,  the  only 
thing  yielding  worth  to  existence,  was  a  partial  real- 
ization of  it !  So  that  the  schism  came  even  to  this, 
that  harmony  itself  was  divided  against  itself,  assert- 
ing that  the  thing  that  was  not,  and  could  not  be, 
yet  ought  to  be-!  Nothing  but  harmony  has  a  real,  a 
.true,  an  essential  being  ;  yet  here  were  thousands  of 
undeniable  things  which  seemed  to  exist  in  very 
virtue  of  their  lack  of  harmony  !  There  were  shocks 
and  recoils  in  every  part  of  every  thinking  soul,  in 
every  part  of  the  object-world  !  And  yet  in  certain 
blissful  pauses,  unlooked  for,  uncaused  by  man, 
certain  sudden  silences  of  the  world,  an  eternal  har- 
mony would  for  one  moment  manifest  itself  behind 


4  22  THERE    AND    BACK. 


the  seething^  conflicting  discords  that  fill  the  atmos- 
phere of  the  soul — straightway  to  vanish  again,  it  is 
true,  but  into  the  heart  of  Hope  that  saves  men.  If 
harmony  was  not  at  one  with  itself  in  its  harmony, 
neither  was  discord  at  one  with  itself  in  its  discord- 
ancy !  Now  and  then  all  Nature  seemed  on  the  point 
of  breaking  into  a  smile,  and  saying.  "  Ah,  children  ! 
if  you  but  knew  what  I  know  !  "  Why  did  she  not 
say  what  she  knew  ?  Why  should  she  hide  the  thing 
that  would  make  her  children  blessed  ? 

The  thought,  half  way  to  an  answer,  did  not  come 
to  Richard  then  :  What  if  we  are  not  yet  able  to 
understand  her  secret — therefore  not  able  to  see  it 
although  it  lies  open  before  us  !  What  if  the  dififi- 
culty  lies  in  us  !  What  if  Nature  is  doing  her  best  to 
reveal !  What  if  God  is  working  to  make  us  knov/ — 
if  we  would  but  let  Him — as  fast  as  ever  He  can  1 
There  is  one  thing  that  will  not  be  pictured,  cannot 
be  made  notionally  present  to  the  mind  by  any  effort 
of  the  imagination — one  thing  that  requires  the  purest 
faith  :  a  man's  own  ignorance  and  incapacity.  It  is 
impossible  to  think  of  the  object  of  our  ignorance, 
how  then  realize  the  ignorance  whose  very  centre  is 
a  blank,  a  negation  !  When  a  man  knows,  then  first 
he  gets  a  glimpse  of  his  ignorance  as  it  vanishes. 
Ignorance,  I  say,  cannot  be  the  object  of  knowledge. 
We  must  believe  ourselves  ignorant.  And  for  that  we 
must  be  humble  of  heart  When  our  world  seems 
clear  to  the  horizon,  when  the  constellations  beyond 
look  plainest,  when  we  seem  to  be  understanding  all 
within  our  scope,  then  have  we  yet  to  believe  that, 
unseen,  formerly  unsuspected,  beyond,  lies  that  which 
may  wither  up  many  forms  of  our  belief,  and  must 
modify  every  true  form  in  which  we  hold  the  truth. 


NATURE    AND    SUPERNATURE.  423 

For  God  is  infinite,  and  we  are  his  little  ones,  and 
his  truth  is  eternally  better  than  the  best  shape  in 
which  we  see  it.  Jesus  is  perfect,  but  is  our  idea  of 
him  perfect?  One  thing  only  is  changeless  truth  in 
us,  .and  that  is — obedient  faith  in  him  and  his 
Father.  Even  that  has  to  grow — but  with  a  growth 
which  is  not  change.  That  there  is  a  greater  life 
than  that  we  feel — yea,  a  life  that  causes  us,  and  is 
absolutely  and  primarily  essential  to  us — of  this  truth 
we  have  a  glimpse;  but  no  man  will  arrive  at  the 
peace  of  it  by  struggling  with  the  roots  of  his  nature 
to  understand  them,  for  those  roots  go  down  and  out, 
out  and  down  infinitely  into  the  infinite.  It  is  by 
acting  upon  what  he  sees  and  knows,  hearkening  to 
every  whisper,  obeying  every  hint  of  the  good,  fol- 
lowing whatever  seems  light,  that  the  man  will  at 
length  arrive.  Thus  obedient,  instead  of  burying 
himself  in  the  darkness  about  its  roots,  he  climbs  to 
the  tree-top  of  his  being  ;  and  looking  out  thence  on 
the  eternal  world  in  which  its  roots  vanish  and  from 
which  it  draws  its  nourishment,  he  will  behold  and 
understand  at  least  enough  to  give  him  rest — and 
how  much  more,  let  his  Hope  of  the  glory  of  God 
stand  at  its  window  and  tell  him.  For  in  his  climb- 
ing, the  man  will,  somewhere  in  his  progress  upward, 
the  progress  of  obedience,  of  accordance  to  the  law 
of  things,  awake  to  know  that  the  same  spirit  is  in 
him  that  is  in  the  things  he  beholds;  and  that  his 
will,  his  individuality,  his  consciousness,  as  it  in- 
folds, so  it  must  find  the  spirit,  that  root  of  himself, 
wdiich  is  infinitely  more  than  himself,  that  "  one  God 
and  Father  of  all,  who  is  above  all,  and  through  all, 
and  in  you  all."  When  He  is  known,  then  all  is  well. 
Then  is  being,  and  in  it  the  growth  of  being,  laid 


THERE    AXD    BACK. 


open  to  him.  God  is  the  world,  the  atmosphere,  the 
element,  the  substance,  the  essence  of  his  life.  In 
him  he  lives  and  moves  and  has  his  being.  Now  he 
lives  indeed  ;  for  his  Orig-in  is  his,  and  this  rounds 
his  being  to  eternity.  God  himself  is  his,  as  nothing 
else  could  be  his.  The  serpent  of  doubt  is  gagged 
with  his  own  tail,  and  becomes  the  symbol  of  the 
eternal. 

Dissatisfaction  is  but  the  reverse  of  the  medal  of 
life.  So  long  as  a  man  is  satisfied,  he  seeks  noth- 
ing ;  when  a  fresh  gulf  is  opened  in  his  being,  he 
must  rise  and  find  wherewithal  to  fill  it.  Our  history 
is  the  opening  of  such  gulfs,  and  the  search  for  what 
will  fill  them. 

But  Richard  was  far  yet  from  having  his  head 
above  the  cloudy  region  of  moods  and  in  the  blue 
air  of  the  unchangeable.  As  the  days  went  by  and 
brought  him  no  word  from  Barbara,  the  darkness 
again  began  to  gather  around  him.  There  are  as 
many  changes  in  a  lover's  weather  as  in  that  of 
England.  The  sad  consolations  of  nature  by  degrees 
forsook  him  ;  they  grew  all  sadness  and  no  consola- 
tion. The  winter  of  his  soul  crept  steadily  upon 
him,  laden  with  frost  and  death.  He  went  back  to 
his  stern  denial  of  a  God.  He  thought  he  had  no 
need  of  any  God,  because  he  had  no  hope  in  any. 

Strangely,  but  in  accordance  with  his  nature,  while 
he  denied  God,  he  denied  him  resentfully.  "  If 
there  were  a  God,"  he  said,  "why  should  I  pray  to 
him .?  He  has  taken  from  me  the  one  good  his 
world  held  for  me !  "  Not  an  hour  would  he  post- 
pone judgment  of  Him  ;  not  one  century  would 
he  give  the  God  of  patience  to  justify  himself  to  his 
impatient   child  !     He  lost  his  love  of  reading.     A 


NATURE    AND    SUPERNATURE.  425 

book  was  to  him  like  a  grinning  death's-head.  He 
ministered  to  it  no  longer  with  his  mind,  but  only 
his  hands.  He  hated  the  very  look  of  poetry.  The 
straggling  lines  of  it  were  loathsome  to  his  eyes. 
Where,  in  such  a  world  as  he  now  lived  in,  could 
live  a  God  worth  being  ?  Where  indeed  .?  Richard 
made  his  own  weather,  and  it  was  bad  enough. 
Happily,  there  is  no  law  compelling  a  man  to  keep 
up  the  weather  or  the  world  he  has  made.  Never 
will  any  man  devise  or  develop  mood  or  world  fit  to 
dwell  in.  He  must  inhabit  a  world  that  inhabits 
him,  a  world  that  envelops  and  informs  every 
thought  and  imagination  of  his  heart. 

In  Richard's  world,  the  one  true,  the  one  divine 
thing  was  its  misery,  for  its  misery  was  its  need  of 
God. 


CHAPTER  XLII. 


YET     A     LOWER     DEEP. 


But  while  thus  Richard  suffered,  scarce  knew,  and 
cared  nothing,  how  the  days  went  and  came,  he  did 
his  best  to  conceal  his  suffering  from  his  father  and 
mother,  and  succeeded  wonderfully.  As  if  in  reward 
for  this  unselfishness,  it  flashed  into  his  mind  what 
a  selfish  fellow  he  was  :  his  trouble  had  made  him 
forget  Alice  and  Arthur  !  he  must  find  them  ! 

He  knew  the  street  where  the  firm  employing 
Arthur  used  to  have  its  offices  ;  but  it  had  removed 
to  other  quarters.  He  went  to  the  old  address,  and 
learned  the  new  one.  The  next  day  he  told  his  father 
he  would  like  to  have  a  holiday.  His  father  making 
no  objection,  he  walked  into  the  city.  There  he 
found  the  place,  but  not  Arthur.  He  had  not  been 
there  for  a  week,  they  said.  No  one  seemed  to  know 
where  he  lived  ;  but  Richard,  regardless  of  rebuffs, 
went  on  inquiring,  until  at  length  he  found  a  carman 
who  lived  in  the  same  street.  He  set  out  for  it  at 
once. 

After  a  long  walk  he  came  to  it,  a  wretched  street 
enough,  in  Pentonville,  with  its  numbers  here  obliter- 
ated, there  repeated,  and  altogether  so  confused,  that 
for  some  time  he  could  not  discover  the  house.  Com- 
ing at  length  to  one  of  the  dingiest,  whose  number 
was  illegible,  but  whose  door  stood  open,  he  walked 
in,  and  up  to  the  second  floor,  where  he  knocked  at 
the  first  door  on  the  landing.     The  feeble  sound  of 


YET    A    LOWER    DEEP.  \2'] 

what  was  hardly  a  voice  answered.  He  went  in. 
There  sat  Arthur,  muffled  in  an  old  rug,  before  a 
wretched  fire,  in  the  dirtiest,  rustiest  grate  he  had  ever 
seen.  He  held  out  a  pallid  hand,  and  greeted  him 
with  a  sunless  smile,  but  did  not  speak. 

"  My  poor,  dear  fellow  !  "  said  Richard  ;  •'  what  is 
the  matter  with  you  ?    Why  didn't  you  let  me  know  .?  " 

The  tears  came  in  Arthur's  eyes,  and  he  struggled 
to  answer  him,  but  his  voice  was  gone.  To  Richard 
he  seemed  horribly  ill — probably  dying.  He  took  a 
piece  of  paper  from  his  pocket,  and  a  pencil-con- 
versation followed. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you  ?  " 

"Only  a  bad  cold." 

"Where  is  Alice  }  " 

"At  the  shop.     She  will  be  back  at  eight  o'clock." 

"  Where  is  your  mother.?  " 

"  I  do  not  know  ;  she  is  out." 

"Tell  me  anything  I  can  do  for  you." 

"  What  does  it  matter  !  I  do  not  know  anything. 
It  will  soon  be  over." 

"  And  this,"  reflected  Richard,  "  is  the  fate  of  one 
who  believes  in  a  God  !  "  But  the  thought  followed 
close,  "I  wish  I  were  going  too  !  "  And  then  came 
the  suggestion,  "What  if  some  one  cares  for  him, 
and  is  taking  him  away  because  he  cares  for  him  ! 
What  if  there  be  a  good  time  waiting  him  1  What 
if  death  be  the  way  to  something  better  !  What  if 
God  be  going  to  surprise  us  with  something  splendid  ! 
What  if  there  come  a  glorious  evening  after  the  sad 
morning  and  fog-sodden  night  !  What  if  Arthur's 
dying  be  in  reality  a  waking  up  to  a  better  sunshine 
than  ours  !  We  see  only  one  side  of  the  thing  ;  he 
may  see  the  other  !    What  if  God  could  not  manage  to 


420  THERE    AND    BACK. 


ripen  our  life  without  suffering-  !  If  only  there  were 
a  God  that  tried  to  do  his  best  for  us,  finding  great 
difficulties,  but  encountering  them  for  the  sake  of  his 
children!" — "How  dearly  I  should  love  such  a 
God  I  "  thought  Richard.  He  would  hold  by  him  to 
the  last !  He  would  do  his  best  to  help  him  !  He 
would  fight  for  him  !     He  would  die  for  him  ! 

His  hour  was  not  yet  come  to  know  that  there  is 
indeed  such  a  God,  doing  his  best  for  us  in  great  dif- 
ficulties, with  enemies  almost  too  much  for  him — the 
falsehood,  namely,  the  unfilialness  of  his  children,  so 
many  of  whom  will  not  be  true,  priding  themselves 
on  the  good  he  has  created  in  them,  while  they  refuse 
to  make  it  their  own  by  obeying  it  when  they  are 
disinclined. 

If  even  he  might  but  hope  that  with  his  last  sigh 
Arthur  would  awake  to  a  consciousness  justifying  his 
existence,  let  him  be  the  creation  of  a  living  power 
or  the  helpless  product  of  a  senseless,  formless  Ens- 
non-ens,  he  would  be  content !  For  then  they  might 
one  day  meet  again — somewhere,  somewhen,  some- 
how ;  together  encounter  afresh  the  troubles  and 
dissatisfactions  of  life,  and  perhaps  work  out  for 
themselves  a  world  more  endurable  ! 

But  with  that  came  the  thought  of  Barbara. 

"No!"  he  said  to  himself,  "let  us  all  die — die 
utterly  !  Why  should  we  grumble  at  our  poor  life 
when  it  means  nothing,  is  so  short,  and  gives  such  a 
sure  and  certain  hope  of  nothing  more  !  Who  would 
prolong  it  in  such  a  world,  with  which  every  soul 
confesses  itself  disappointed,  of  which  every  heart 
cries  that  it  cannot  have  been  made  for  us  !  When 
they  grow  old,  men  always  say  they  have  found  life 
a  delusion,  and  would  not  live  it  again.     From  the 


YET    A    LOWER    DEEP.  429 

first,  things  have  been  moving  toward  the  worse  ; 
life  has  been  growing  more  dreary  ;  men  are  more 
miserable  now  than  when  they  were  savage  :  how 
can  we  tell  that  the  world  was  not  started  at  its  best, 
to  go  down  hill  forever  and  ever,  with  a  God  to  urge 
its  evil  pace,  for  surely  there  is  none  to  stop  it !  What 
if  the  world  be  the  hate-contrivance  of  a  being  whose 
delight  it  is  to  watch  its  shuddering  descent  into  the 
gulf  of  extinction,  its  agonized  slide  into  the  red  foam 
of  the  lake  of  fire  !  " 

But  he  must  do  something  for  the  friend  by  whose 
side  he  had  sat  speechless  for  minutes  ! 

"I  will  come  and  see  you  again  soon,  Arthur,"  he 
said;  "I  must  go  now.  Would  you  mind  the  loan 
of  a  few  shillings  ?  It  is  all  I  happen  to  have  about 
me !  " 

Arthur  shook  his  head,  and  wrote, 

"  Money  is  of  no  use — not  the  least." 

"Don't  you  fancy  anything  that  might  do  you 
good  ? " 

"  I  can't  get  out  to  get  anything." 

"Your  mother  would  get  it  for  you  1  " 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  But  there's  Alice  !  " 

Arthur  gave  a  great  sigh,  and  said  nothing.  Rich- 
ard laid  the  shillings  on  the  chimney-piece,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  make  up  the  fire  before  he  went.  He  could 
see  no  sort  of  coal-scuttle,  no  fuel  of  any  kind. 
With  a  heavy  heart  he  left  him,  and  went  down  into 
the  street  wondering  what  he  could  do. 

As  he  drew  near  the  public-house  that  chiefly 
poisoned  the  neighborhood,  it  opened  its  hell-jaws, 
and  cast  out  a  woman  in  frowzy  black,  wiping  her 
mouth  under  her  veil  with  a  dirty  pocket-handker- 


430  THERE    AND    BACK. 


chief.  She  had  a  swollen  red  face,  betokening  the 
presence  of  much  drink,  walked  erect,  and  went  per- 
fectly straight,  but  looked  as  if,  were  she  to  relax  the 
least  of  her  state,  she  would  stagger.  As  she  passed 
Richard,  he  recognized  her :  it  was  Mrs.  Manson. 
Without  a  thought  he  stopped  to  speak  to  her.  The 
same  moment  he  saw  that,  although  not  dead-drunk, 
she  could  by  no  tropical  contortion  be  said  to  be 
sober. 

She  started,  and  gave  a  snort  of  indignation. 

" You  here  !"  she  cried.  "What  do  you  want — 
coming  here  to  insult  your  betters  !  You  Tuke  the 
younger  !  You  the  son  of  the  bookbinder  !  You're 
no  more  John  Tuke's  son  than  I  am.  You're  the 
son  of  that  precious  rascal,  my  husband  !  Go  to  Sir 
Wilton  Lestrange ;  don't  come  to  me  !  You're  a 
base-born  wretch. — Oh,  yes,  run  to  your  mother. 
Tell  her  what  I  say  !  Tell  her  she  was  lucky  to  get 
hold  of  her  tradesman." 

She  had  told  her  son  and  daughter  that  Richard 
•was  the  missing  heir ;  and  in  what  she  now  said  she 
may  have  meant  only  to  reflect  on  the  humble  birth 
of  his  mother  and  abuse  his  aunt,  but  it  does  not 
matter  much  what  a  drunkard  means.  At  the  same 
time  the  poison  of  asps  may  come  from  the  lips  of  a 
drunkard  as  from  those  of  a  sober  liar.  As  the 
woman  staggered  away,  Richard  gave  a  stagger  too, 
and  seemed  to  himself,  to  go  reeling  along  the  street. 
He  sat  down  on  a  doorstep  to  recover  himself,  but 
for  a  long  way  after  resuming  his  walk  went  like  one 
half  stunned.  His  brain,  nevertheless,  seemed  to  go 
on  working  of  itself  The  v^^retched  woman's  state- 
ment glowed  in  him  with  a  lurid  light.  It  seemed  to 
explain  so  much  !     He  had  often  felt  that  his  father, 


YET    A    LOWER    DEEP.  43  I 

though  always  just,  did  not  greatly  care  for  him. 
Then  there  was  his  mother's  strangeness — the  hard- 
ness of  her  religion,  the  gloom  that  at  times  took 
possession  of  her  whole  being,  her  bursts  of  tender- 
ness, and  her  occasional  irritability  !  His  mother  ! 
That  his  mother  should — should  have  made  him  an 
outcast  !  The  thought  was  sickening  !  it  was  horri- 
ble !  Perhaps  the  woman  lied  !  But  no  ;  something 
questionable  in  the  background  of  his  life  had  been 
unrecognizably  showing  from  the  first  of  his  memory  ! 
All  was  clear  now  !  His  mother's  cruel  breach  with 
Alice,  and  her  determination  that  there  should  be  no 
intercourse  between  the  families,  was  explained  :  had 
Alice  and  he  fallen  in  love  with  each  other,  she 
would  have  had  to  tell  the  truth  to  part  them  !  He 
must  know  the  truth  !  He  would  ask  his  mother 
straight  out,  the  moment  he  got  home  !  But  how 
could  he  ask  her !  How  could  any  son  go  to  his 
mother  with  such  a  question  !  Whatever  the  answer 
to  it,  he  dared  not !  There  was  but  one  alternative 
left  him — either  to  kill  himself,  or  to  smother  his 
suffering,  and  let  the  miserable  world  go  on  !  Why 
should  he  add  to  its  misery  by  making  his  own 
mother  more  miserable  !  Such  a  question  from  her 
son  would  go  through  her  heart  like  the  claws  of  a 
lynx  !  How  could  she  answer  it  !  How  could  he 
look  upon  her  shame  !  Had  she  not  had  trouble 
enough  already,  poor  mother  !  It  would  be  hard  if 
her  God  assailed  her  on  all  sides — beset  her  behind 
and  before  !  Poor  mother  indeed,  if  her  son  was  no 
better  than  her  God  !  He  must  be  a  better  son  to  her 
than  he  had  been  !  The  child  of  her  hurt  must  heal 
her  !  Must  he  as  well  as  his  father  be  cruel  to  her  ! 
But  alas,   what    help    was   in    him !     What   comfort 


432 


THERE    AND    BACK. 


could  a  heart  of  pain  yield  !  what  soothing  stream 
flow  from  a  well  of  sorrow  !  Truly  his  mother 
needed  a  new  God  ! 

But  even  this  horror  held  its  germ  of  comfort :  he 
had  his  brother  Arthur,  his  sister  Alice,  to  care  and 
provide  for  !  They  should  not  die  !  He  had  now 
the  right  to  compel  them  to  accept  his  aid  ! 

He  thought  and  thought,  and  saw  that,  in  order  to 
help  them,  to  do  his  duty  by  them,  he  must  make  a 
change  in  his  business  relations  with  Mr.  Tuke  :  he 
must  have  the  command  of  his  earnings  !  He  could 
do  nothing  for  his  brother  and  sister  as  things  were  ! 
To  ask  for  money  would  wake  inquiry,  and  he  dared 
not  let  his  mother  know  that  he  went  to  see  them  ! 
If  he  did,  she  would  be  compelled  to  speak  out,  and 
that  was  a  torture  he  would  rather  see  her  die  than 
suffer.  He  must  have  money  concerning  which  no 
questions  would  be  asked  !  Poor,  poor  creatures  ! 
Oh,  that  terrible  mother  !  It  was  good  to  know  that 
his  mother  was  not  like  her ! 

The  first  thing  then  was,  to  ask  his  father  to  take 
him  as  a  journeyman,  and  give  him  journeyman's 
wages.  His  work,  he  knew,  was  worth  much  more, 
but  that  would  be  enough ;  his  father  was  welcome 
to  the  rest.  Out  of  his  wages  he  would  pay  his  share 
of  the  housekeeping,  and  do  as  he  pleased  with  what 
was  left.  Buying  no  more  books,  he  would  have  a 
nice  little  weekly  sum  free  for  Alice  and  Arthur.  To 
see  his  brother  and  sister  half  starved  was  unendur- 
able !  he  would  himself  starve  first !  But  how  was 
his  money  to  reach  them  in  the  shape  of  food?  That 
greedy,  drunken  mother  of  them  swallowed  every- 
thing !  Like  old  Saturn  she  devoured  her  children  ; 
she  ate  and  drank  them  to  death  !     Sport  of  a  low, 


YET    A    LOWER    DEEP.  433 

consuming  passion,  thougfht  Richard,  what  matter 
whether  she  came  of  God  or  devil  or  nothing  at  all  ! 
Redemption,  salvation  from  an  evil  self,  had  as  yet 
no  greater  part  in  Richard's  theories  than  in  Mrs. 
Manson's  thoughts.  The  sole  good,  the  sole  satis- 
faction in  life  the  woman  knew,  was  to  eat  and  drink, 
if  not  what  she  pleased,  at  least  what  she  liked.  If 
there  were  an  eternity  in  front,  thought  Richard,  and 
she  had  her  way  in  it,  she  would  go  on  forever 
eating  and  drinking,  craving  and  filling,  to  all  the 
ages  unsatisfied  :  he  would  not  have  his  hard-earned 
money  go  to  fill  her  insatiable  maw  !  It  was  not  his 
part  in  life  to  make  her  drunk  and  comfortable  ! 
Wherever  he  came  from,  he  could  not  be  in  the  vv^orld 
for  that !     So  what  was  he  to  do  ? 

He  seemed  now  to  understand  why  Barbara  had 
not  written.  She  had  known  him  as  the  son  of  honest 
tradespeople,  and  had  no  pride  to  make  her  despise 
him  ;  but  learning  from  Alice  that  he  was  base-born, 
she  might  well  wish  to  drop  him  !  It  might  not  be 
altogether  fair  of  Barbara — for  how  was  he  to  blame  .'* 
Almost  as  little  was  she  to  blame,  brought  up  to 
count  such  as  he  disgraced  from  their  birth  !  Doubt- 
less her  religion  should  have  raised  her  above  the 
cruel  and  false  prejudice,  for  she  said  it  taught  her  to 
be  fair,  insisted  that  she  should  be  just!  But  with 
all  the  world  against  him,  how  could  one  girl  stand 
up  for  him  .?  True,  he  needed  fair  play  just  so  much 
the  more  ;  but  that  was  the  way  things  went  in  this 
best  of  possible  worlds!  No  two  things  in  it,  meant 
to  go  together,  fitted  !  He  fought  hard  for  Barbara, 
strained  his  strength  with  himself  to  be  content  be- 
forehand with  whatever  she  might  do,  or  think,  or 
say.  One  thing  only  he  could  not  bear — to  think 
28 


434  THERE    AND    BACK. 


less  of  Barbara  !  That  would  kill  him,  paralyze  his 
very  soul  ! — of  a  man  make  him  a  machine,  a  beast 
outright  at  best !  In  all  the  world,  Barbara  was 
likest  the  God  she  believed  in  :  if  she — the  idea  of 
her,  that  was — were  taken  from  him,  he  must  de- 
spair !  He  could  stand  losing  herself,  he  said,  but  not 
the  thought  of  her  !  Let  him  keep  that !  Let  him 
keep  that !  He  would  revel  in  that,  and  defy  all  the 
evil  gods  in  the  great  universe  ! 

With  his  heart  like  a  stone  in  his  bosom,  he  reached 
the  house,  a  home  to  him  no  more  !  and  by  effort 
supreme — in  which,  to  be  honest,  for  Richard  was 
not  yet  a  hero,  he  was  aided  by  the  consciousness  of 
doing  a  thing  of  praise — managed  to  demean  himself 
rather  better  than  of  late.  The  surges  of  the  sea  of 
troubles  rose  to  overwhelm  him  ;  his  courage  rose  to 
brave  them  :  let  them  do  their  worst !  he  would  be  a 
man  still  !  True,  his  courage  had  a  cry  at  the  heart 
of  it ;  but  there  was  not  a  little  of  the  stoic  in  Richard, 
and  if  it  was  not  the  stoicism  of  Epictetus  or  of  Marcus 
Aurelius,  there  was  yet  some  timely,  transient  help 
in  it.  He  was  doing  the  best  he  could  without  God  ; 
and  sure  the  Father  was  pleased  to  see  the  effort  of 
his  child  !  To  suffer  in  patience  was  a  step  toward 
himself.  No  doubt  self  was  potent  in  the  patience, 
and  not  the  best  self,  for  that  forgets  itself — yet  the 
better  self,  the  self  that  chooses  what  good  it  knows. 

The  same  night  he  laid  his  request  for  fixed  wages 
before  his  father,  who  agreed  to  it  at  once.  He  be- 
lieved it  no  small  matter  in  education  that  a  youth 
should  have  money  at  his  disposal  ;  and  his  wife 
agreed,  with  a  pang,  to  what  he  counted  a  reasonable 
sum  for  Richard's  board.  But  she  would  not  hear  of 
his  paying  for  his  lodging  ;  that  was  more  than  the 


YET    A    LOWER    DEEP. 


435 


mother  heart  could  bear  :  it  would  be  like  yielding 
that  he  was  not  her  very  own  child  ! 

The  trouble  remained,  that  a  long  week  must  elapse 
before  he  could  touch  any  wages,  and  he  dared  not 
borrow  for  fear  of  questions  :  there  was  no  help  ! 

At  night,  the  moment  his  head  was  on  the  pillow, 
the  strain  of  his  stoicism  gave  way.  Then  first  he 
felt  alone,  utterly  alone  ;  and  the  loneliness  went 
into  his  soul,  and  settled  there,  a  fearful  entity.  The 
strong  stoic,  the  righteous  unbeliever  burst  into  a  pas- 
sion of  tears.  Sure  they  were  the  gift  of  the  God 
he  did  not  know  !  — say  rather,  of  the  God  he  knew  a 
little,  without  knowing  that  he  knew  him — and  they 
somewhat  cooled  his  burning  heart.  But  the  fog  of 
a  fresh  despair  steamed  up  from  the  rain,  and  its 
clouds  closed  down  upon  him.  What  was  left  him 
to  live  for  !  what  to  keep  his  heart  beating  !  what  to 
make  life  a  living  thing  !  Sunned  and  showered  too 
much,  it  was  faded  and  colorless  !  Why  must  he  live 
on,  as  in  a  poor  dream,  without  even  the  interest  of 
danger  !■ — for  where  life  is  worth  nothing,  danger 
is  gone,  and  danger  is  the  last  interest  of  life  !  All 
was  gray  !  Nothing  was,  but  the  damp  and  chill  of 
the  grave  !  No  cloak  of  insanest  belief,  of  dullest 
mistake,  would  henceforth  hide  any  more  the  dreary 
nakedness  of  the  skeleton,  life  !  The  world  lay  in 
clearest,  barest,  coldest  light,  its  hopeless  deceit  and 
its  misery  all  revealed  !  It  was  well  that  a  grumous 
fog  pervaded  the  air,  each  atom  a  spike  in  a  vesicle 
of  darkness  !  it  was  well  that  no  summer  noon  was 
blazing  about  the  world  1  At  least  there  was  no  mock- 
ery now  !  the  world  was  not  pretending  to  be  happy  ! 
was  not  helping  the  demon  of  laughter  to  jeer  at  the 
misery  of  men  !     Oh,  the  hellish  thing,  life  !     Oh,  this 


,36  THERE    AND    BACK. 


devilish  thing,  existence  I — a  mask  with  no  face  be- 
liind  it  !  a  look  with  no  soul  that  looked  ! — a  bubble 
blown  out  of  lies  with  the  breath  of  a  liar  !  Words  ! 
words  !  words  !     Lies  !  lies  !  lies  ! 

All  of  a  sudden  he  was  crying,  as  if  with  a  loud 
voice  from  the  bottom  of  his  heart,  though  never  a 
sound  rose  through  his  throat,  "  Oh  thou  who  didst 
make  me,  if  thou  art  anywhere,  if  there  be  such  a  one 
as  I  cry  to,  unmake  me  again  ;  undo  that  which  thou 
hast  done  ;  tear  asunder  and  scatter  that  which  thou 
hast  put  together  !  Be  merciful  for  once,  and  kill 
me.  Let  me  cease  to  exist — rather,  let  me  cease  to 
die.  Will  not  plenty  of  my  kind  remain  to  satisfy 
thy  soiil  with  torment !  " 

Up  towered  a  surge  of  shame  at  his  poltroonery  ; 
he  prayed  for  his  own  solitary  release,  and  abandoned 
his  fellows  to  the  maker  of  their  misery  ! 

"No!"  he  cried  aloud,  "I  -will  not!  I  will  not 
pray  for  that !  I  will  not  fare  better  than  my  fellows  ! 
— O,  God,  pity — if  thou  hast  any  pity,  or  if  pity  can 
be  born  of  any  prayer — pity  thy  creatures  !  If  thou 
art  anywhere,  speak  to  me,  and  let  me  hear  thee.  If 
thou  art  God,  if  thou  livest,  and  carest  that  I  suffer, 
and  wouldst  help  me  if  thou  couldst,  then  I  will  live, 
and  bear,  and  wait ;  only  let  me  know  that  thou  art, 
and  art  good,  and  not  cruel.  If  I  had  but  a  friend 
that  would  stand  by  me,  and  talk  to  me  a  little,  and 
help  me  !  I  have  no  one,  no  one,  God,  to  speak  to  ! 
and  if  thou  wilt  not  hear,  then  there  is  nothing  !  Oh, 
be  !  be  !  God,  I  pray  thee,  exist !  Thou  knowest 
my  desolation — for  surely  thou  art  desolate,  with  no 
honest  heart  to  love  thee  !  " 

He  thought  of  Barbara,  and  ceased  :  she  loved 
God! 


YET   A    LOWER    DEEP.  437 

A  silence  came  down  upon  his  soul.  Ere  it  passed 
he  was  asleep,  and  knew  no  more  till  the  morning 
waked  him — to  sorrow  indeed,  but  from  a  dream  of 
hope. 

On  a  few-keyed  finger-board,  yet  with  multitud- 
inous change,  life  struck  every  interval  betwixt  keen 
sorrow,  lethargic  gloom,  and  grayest  hope,  and  the 
days  passed  and  passed. 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

TO  BE  REDEEMED,  ONE  MUST  REDEEM. 

The  moment  he  received  his  wages  from  his  father 
at  the  end  of  the  week,  Richard  set  out  for  Everilda 
Street,  Clerkenwell,  a  little  anxious  at  the  thought  of 
encountering  the  dreadful  mother,  but  hoping  she 
would  be  out  of  the  way. 

When  he  reached  the  place,  he  found  no  one  at 
home.  He  could  not  go  back  with  his  mission 
unaccomplished,  and  hung  about,  keeping  a  sharp 
watch  on  each  end  of  the  street,  and  on  the  ap- 
proaches to  it  that  he  passed  in  walking  to  and  fro. 

He  had  not  waited  long  before  Arthur  appeared, 
stooping  like  an  aged  man,  and  moving  slowly.  He 
was  in  the  same  shabby  muffler  as  of  old.  His  face 
brightened  when  he  saw  his  friend,  but  a  tit  of  cough- 
ing prevented  him  for  some  time  from  returning  his 
salutation. 

"  When  did  you  have  your  dinner.?  "  asked  Richard. 

"  I  had  something  to  eat  in  the  middle  of  the  day," 
he  answered  feebly  ;  "and  when  Alice  comes,  she 
will  perhaps  bring  something  with  her  ;  but  we  don't 
care  much  about  eating. — We've  got  out  of  the  way 
of  it  somehow  !  "  he  added  with  an  unreal  laugh. 

"  It's  no  wonder  you  can't  get  rid  of  your  cold  !  " 
returned  Richard.  "Come  along,  and  have  some- 
thing to  eat." 

"  I  can't  have  Ally  come  home  and  not  tind  me  !  " 
objected  Arthur. 


TO  BE  REDEEMED,  ONE  MUST  REDEEM.       439 

"You  shall  put  something  in  your  pocket  for  her!" 
sugg:ested  Richard. 

He  seemed  to  yield  ;  but  his  every  motion  was  full 
of  indecision.      Richard  took  his  arm. 

"  Do  you  know  any  place  near,"  he  asked,  "  where 
we  could  get  some  supper.?  " 

"No,  I'm  afraid  I  don't,"  answered  Arthur. 

"Then  you  go  in  and  rest,  while  I  go  and  see," 
returned  Richard. 

He  searched  for  some  time,  but  came  upon  no 
place  where  a  man  could  even  sit  down.  At  last  he 
found  a  coffee-shop,  and  went  to  fetch  Arthur. 

He  found  him  stretched  on  his  bed,  but  he  rose  at 
once  to  accompany  him — with  the  more  difficulty 
that  he  had  yielded  to  his  weariness  and  lain  down. 
They  managed  however  to  reach  their  goal,  and  the 
sight  of  food  waking  a  little  hunger,  the  poor  fellow 
did  pretty  well  for  one  who  looked  so  ill.  As  he  ate 
he  revived,  and  by  and  by  began  to  talk  a  little  :  he 
had  never  been  much  of  a  talker — had  never  had  food 
enough  for  talking. 

"It's  very  good  of  you,  Richard  !"  he  said.  "I 
suppose  you  know  all  about  it !  " 

"  I  don't.     What  is  it .?     Anything  new  ?  " 

"No,  nothing  !     It's  all  so  miserable  !  " 

"It's  not  all  miserable,"  answered  Richard,  "so 
long  as  we  are  brothers  1  " 

The  tears  came  in  Arthur's  eyes.  Their  mother 
had  repented  telling  them  the  truth  about  Richard, 
and  pretended  to  have  discovered  that,  while  Sir 
Wilton  was  indeed  Richard's  father,  Mrs.  Tuke  was 
after  all  his  mother. 

"Yes,  that  is  good,"  he  said,  "  though  it  be  only  in 
misfortune  !     But  I  am  a  wretched  creature,  and  no 


440  THERE    AND    BACK. 


good  to  anybody  ;  you  are  a  strong-  man,  Richard  ;  I 
shall  never  be  worth  calling  your  brother!  " 

"You  can  do  one  great  thing  for  me." 

"What  is  that?" 

"  Live  and  grow  well." 

"I  wish  I  could;  but  that  is  just  what  I  can't  do. 
I'm  on  my  way  home." 

"I  would  gladly  go  with  you  !  " 

"Why.?" 

Richard  made  no  answer,  and  silence  followed. 
Arthur  got  up. 

"Ally  will  be  home,"  he  said,  "and  thinking  me 
too  ill  to  get  along  !  " 

"  Let's  go  then  !  "  said  Richard. 

When  they  entered  Everilda  street,  they  saw  Alice 
on  the  doorstep,  looking  anxiously  up  and  down. 
The  moment  she  caught  sight  of  them,  she  ran  away 
along  the  street.  Richard  would  have  followed  her, 
but  Arthur  held  him,  and  said  : 

"Never  mind  her  to-night,  Richard!  She  don't 
know  that  you  know.  I  will  tell  her  ;  and  when  you 
come  again,  you  will  find  her  different.  Go,  now, 
and  come  as  soon  as  you  can — at  least,  I  mean,  as 
soon  as  you  like." 

"I  will  come  to-morrow,"  answered  Richard. 
"  Do  you  want  me  to  go  now  ?  " 

"It  would  be  better  for  Alice.  I  will  go  to  the 
end  of  the  street,  and  she  will  see  me  from  where 
she  is  hiding,  and  come.     She  always  does." 

"  Is  she  in  the  way  of  hiding  then  ?  " 

"Yes,  when  my  mother  is " 

"Well,  good-bye  !"  said  Richard.  "But  where 
shall  I  find  you  to-morrow  .'  " 

They  arranged  their  meeting,  and  parted. 


TO  BE  REDEEMED,  ONE  MUST  REDEEM.       44 1 

The  next  day,  they  found  a  better  phice  for  their 
meal.  Richard  thought  it  better  not  to  go  quite 
home  with  Arthur,  but,  having  learned  from  him 
where  Alice  worked,  and  at  what  hour  she  left,  went 
the  following  night  to  wait  for  her  not  far  from  the 
shop. 

At  last  she  came  along,  looking  very  thin  and  pale, 
but  she  shone  up  when  she  saw  him,  and  joined  him 
without  the  least  hesitation. 

"  How  do  you  think  Arthur  is  ?  "  he  asked. 

"I've  not  seen  him  so  well  for  ever  so  long,"  she 
answered.  "But  that  is  not  saying  much!"  she 
added  with  a  sigh. 

They  walked  along  together.  With  a  taste  of  hap- 
piness, say,  once  a  week,  Alice  would  have  been  a 
merry  girl.  She  was  so  content  to  be  with  Richard 
that  she  never  heeded  where  he  was  taking  her.  But 
when  she  found  him  going  into  a  shop  with  a  ham 
in  the  window,  she  drew  back. 

"No,  Richard,"  she  said;  "I  can't  let  you  feed 
me  and  Arthur  too  !  Indeed  I  can't !  It  would  be 
downright  robbery  !  " 

"Nonsense!"  returned  Richard;  "I  want  some 
supper,  and  you  must  keep  me  company  !  " 

"You  must  excuse  me  1  "  she  insisted.  "  It's  all 
right  for  Arthur  ;  he's  ill ;  but  for  me,  I  couldn't  look 
myself  in  the  face  in  the  glass  if  I  let  you  feed  fne~~ 
a  strong  girl,  fit  for  anything  !  " 

"Now  look  here  !  "  said  Richard  ;  "I  must  come 
to  the  point,  and  you  must  be  reasonble  !  Ain't  you 
my  sister.? — and  don't  I  know  you  haven't  enough 
to  eat  ? " 

"Who  told  you  that.?" 

"No  one.     Any  fool  could  see  it  with  half  an  eye  !" 


442  IHERE    AND    BACK. 

"Artie  has  been  telling  tales  !  " 

"Not  one  !  Just  listen  to  me.  I  earn  so  much  a 
week  now,  and  after  paying  for  everything,  have 
something  over  to  spend  as  I  please.  If  you  refuse 
me  for  a  brother,  say  so,  and  I  will  leave  you  alone  : 
why  should  a  man  tear  his  heart  out  looking  on 
where  he  can't  help  !  " 

She  stood  motionless,  and  made  him  no  answer. 

"  Look  here  !  "  he  said  ;  "  there  is  the  money  for 
our  supper  :  if  you  will  not  go  with  me  and  eat  it,  I 
will  throw  it  in  the  street." 

With  her  ingrained  feeling  of  the  preciousness  of 
money,  Alice  did  not  believe  him. 

"Oh,  no,  Richard!  you  would  never  do  that!" 
she  said. 

The  same  instant  the  coins  rang  faintly  from  the 
middle  of  the  street,  and  a  cab  passed  over  them. 
Alice  gave  a  cry  as  of  bodily  pain,  and  started  to  pick 
them  up.      Richard  held  her  fast. 

"  It's  your  supper,  Richard  !  "  she  almost  shrieked, 
and  struggled  to  get  away  after  the  money. 

"Yes,"  he  answered;  "and  yours  goes  after  it, 
except  you  come  in  and  share  it  with  me  !  " 

As  he  spoke  he  showed  her  his  hand  with  shil- 
lings in  it. 

She  turned  and  entered  the  shop.  Richard  ordered 
a  good  meal. 

Alice  stopped  in  the  middle  of  her  supper,  laid 
down  her  knife  and  fork,  and  burst  out  crying. 

"  What /s  the  matter.?"  said  Richard,  alarmed. 

"I  can't  bear  to  think  of  that  money!  I  must  go 
and  look  for  it !  "  sobbed  Alice. 

Richard  laughed,  the  first  time  for  days. 


TO  BE  REDEEMED,  ONE  MUST  REDEEM.       443 


"Alice,"  he  said,  "the  money  was  well  spent: 
I  got  my  own  way  with  it !  " 

As  she  ate  and  drank,  a  little  color  rose  in  her  face, 
and  on  Richard  fell  a  shadow  of  the  joy  of  his  creator, 
beholding  his  work,  and  seeing  it  good. 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

A     DOOR    OPENED    IN    HEAVEN. 

Some  men  hunt  their  fellows  to  prey  upon  them, 
and  fill  their  own  greedy  maws  ;  Richard  hunted  and 
caught  his  brother  and  sister  that  he  might  feed  them 
with  the  labor  of  his  hands.  I  fear  there  was  there- 
fore a  little  more  for  the  mother  to  guzzle,  but  it  is  of 
small  consequence  whether  those  that  go  down  the 
hill  arrived  at  the  foot  a  week  sooner  or  later.  To 
Arthur  and  Alice,  their  new-found  brother,  strong  and 
loving,  was  as  an  angel  from  high  heaven.  It  was  no 
fault  in  Richard  that  he  did  not  find  a  correspondent 
comfort  in  them.  It  did  in  truth  comfort  him  to  see 
them  improve  in  looks  and  in  strength  ;  but  they  had 
not  many  thoughts  to  share  with  him — had  little  coin 
for  spiritual  commerce.  Even  their  religion,  like  that 
of  most  who  claim  any,  had  little  shape  or  color. 
What  there  was  of  it  was  genuine,  which  made  it 
infinitely  precious,  but  it  was  much  too  weak  to  pass 
over  to  the  help  of  another.  Divine  aid,  however, 
of  a  different  sort,  was  waiting  for  him. 

Hitherto  he  had  heard  little  or  no  music.  The  little 
was  from  the  church-organ,  and  his  not  unjustifiable 
prejudice  against  its  surroundings,  had  disinclined  him 
to  listen  when  it  spoke.  The  intellect  of  the  youth 
had  come  to  the  front,  and  the  higher  powers  to 
which  art  is  ministrant,  had  remained  much  unde- 
veloped, shut  in  darkened  palace-rooms,  where  a  ray 
of  genial  impulse  not  often  entered.     For  the  highest 


A  DOOR  OPENED  IN  HEAVEN.  445 

of  those  powers,  the  imagination,  without  which  no 
discovery  of  any  grandeur  is  made  even  in  the  realms 
of  science,  dwells  in  the  halls  of  aspiration,  outlook, 
desire,  and  hope,  and  round  the  windows  and  filling 
the  air  of  these,  hung  the  dry  dust-cloud  of  Richard's 
negation.  But  when  Love,  with  her  attendant  Sorrow, 
came,  they  opened  wide  all  the  doors  and  windows 
of  them  to  what  might  enter.  Hitherto  all  his  poetry, 
even  what  he  produced,  had  come  to  Richard  at 
second  hand,  that  is,  from  the  inspiration  of  books  ; 
its  flowers  were  of  the  moon,  not  of  the  sun  ;  they 
sprang  under  the  pale  reflex  light  of  other  souls  :  for 
genuine  life  of  any  and  every  sort,  the  immediate  in- 
spiration of  the  Almighty  is  the  one  essential,  and  for 
that.  Sorrow  and  Love  now  made  a  way. 

First  of  all,  the  lower  winds  and  sidelong  rays, of 
art,  all  from  the  father  of  lights,  crept  in,  able  now  to 
work  for  his  perfect  will.  For  when  a  man  has  once 
begun  to  live,  then  have  the  thoughts  and  feelings  of 
other  men,  and  every  art  in  which  those  thoughts  or 
feelings  are  embodied  by  them,  a  sevenfold  power 
for  the  strengthening  and  rousing  of  the  divine  nature 
in  him.  And  as  the  divine  nature  is  roused,  the 
diviner  nature,  the  immediate  God,  enters  to  pos- 
sess it. 

A  gentleman  who  employed  Richard,  happened 
one  day,  in  conversation  with  him  as  he  pursued  his 
work,  to  start  the  subject  of  music,  and  made  a  re- 
mark which,  notwithstanding  Richard's  ignorance, 
found  sufficient  way  into  his  mind  to  make  him  think 
over  what  little  experience  he  had  had  of  sweet 
sounds,  ere  he  made  his  reply.  When  made,  it  re- 
vealed in  truth  his  ignorance,  but  his  modesty  as  well, 
and  his  capacity  for  understanding — with  the  result 


446  THERE    AND    BACK. 

that  the  gentleman,  who  was  not  only  a  lover  of 
music  but  a  believer  in  it,  said  to  him  in  return  things 
which  roused  in  him  such  a  desire  to  put  them  to  the 
test  for  verification  or  disproval,  that  he  went  the  next 
Monday  night  to  the  popular  concert  at  St.  James's 
Hall.  In  the  crowd  that  waited  more  than  an  hour  at 
the  door  of  the  orchestra  to  secure  a  shilling-place, 
there  was  not  one  that  knew  so  little  of  music  as  he; 
but  there  never  had  been  in  it  one  whose  ignorance 
was  more  worthy  of  destruction.  The  first  throbbing 
flash  of  the  violins  cleft  his  soul  as  lightning  cleaves 
a  dark  cloud,  and  set  his  body  shivering  as  with  its 
thunder — and  lo,  a  door  was  opened  in  heaven  !  and, 
like  the  writhings  of  a  cloud  in  the  grasp  of  a  heavenly 
wind,  all  the  discords  of  spirit-pain  were  breaking  up, 
changing,  and  solving  themselves  into  the  song  of 
the  violins  !  After  that,  he  went  every  Monday  night 
to  the  same, concert-room.  It  was  his  church,  the 
mount  of  his  ascension,  the  place  whence  he  soared 
— no,  but  was  lifted  up  to  what  was  as  yet  his  highest 
consciousness  of  being.  All  that  was  best  and  sim- 
plest in  him  came  wide  awake  as  he  sat  and  listened. 
What  fact  did  the  music  prove }  None  whatever. 
Yet  would  not  the  logic  of  all  science  have  persuaded 
Richard  that  the  sea  of  mood  and  mystic  response, 
tossing  his  soul  hither  and  thither  on  its  radiant 
waters,  as,  deep  unto  deep,  it  answered  the  march- 
ing array  of  live  waves,  fashioned  one  by  one  out  of 
the  still  air,  marshalled  and  ranked  and  driven  on  in 
symmetric  relation  and  order  by  those  strange  crea- 
tive powers  with  their  curious  symbols,  throned  at 
their  godlike  labor — that  the  answer  of  his  soul,  I 
say,  was  but  an  illusion,  the  babble  of  a  sleeping 
child  in  reply  to  a  question  never  put.     If  it  was  an 


A    DOOR    OPENED    IN    HEAVEN. 


447 


illusion,  how  came  it  that  such  illusion  was  possible? 
If  an  illusion,  whence  its  peculiar  bliss — a  bliss 
aroused  by  law  imperative  that  ruled  its  factors,  yet 
bore  scant  resemblance  to  the  bliss  ?  What  he  felt, 
he  knew  that  he  felt,  and  knew  that  he  had  never 
caused  it,  never  commanded  its  presence,  never  fore- 
seen its  arrival,  never  known  of  its  possible  existence. 
The  feeling  was  ijt  him,  but  had  been  waked  by  some 
power  beyond  him,  for  he  was  not  himself  even  pres- 
ent at  its  origin  !  The  voice  of  that  power  was  a 
voice  all  sweetness  and  persuading,  yet  a  voice  of 
creation,  calling  up  a  world  of  splendor  and  delight, 
the  beams  of  whose  chambers  were  indeed  laid  upon 
the  waters,  but  had  there  a  foundation  the  less  lively 
earth  could  not  afford.  For  the  very  essence  of  the 
creative  voice,  working  wildest  delirium  of  content, 
was  law  that  could  not  be  broken,  the  very  law  of 
the  thought  of  God  himself.  Law  is  life,  for  God  is 
law,  and  God  is  life.  Law  is  the  root  and  the  stalk 
of  life,  beauty  is  the  flower  of  life,  and  joy  is  its  odor  ; 
but  life  itself  is  love.  The  flower  and  its  odor  are 
given  unto  men  ;  the  root  and  stalk  they  may  search 
into  if  they  will  ;  the  giver  of  life  they  must  know, 
or  they  cannot  live  with  his  life,  they  cannot  share 
in  the  life  eternal. 

One  night,  after  many  another  such,  he  sat  en- 
tranced, listening  to  the  song  of  a  violin,  alone  and 
perfect,  soaring  and  sailing  the  empyrean  uncon- 
voyed, — and  Barbara  in  his  heart  was  listening  with 
him.  He  had  given  up  hope  of  seeing  her  again  in 
this  world,  but  not  all  hope  of  seeing  her  again  some- 
where ;  and  her  image  had  not  grown  less  dear,  I 
should  rather  say  less  precious  to  him.  The  song, 
like  a  heavenly  lark,  folded  its  wings  while  yet  high 


448  THERE    AND    BACK. 


ill  the  air,  and  ceased  :  its  nest  was  somewhere  up  in 
the  blue.  Should  I  say  rather  that  one  after  one  the 
singing  birds  flitted  from  the  strings,  those  telegraph- 
wires  betwixt  the  seen  and  the  unseen,  and  now  the 
last  lingerer  was  gone  ?  All  was  over,  and  the  world 
was  still.  But  the  face  of  Barbara  kept  shining  from 
the  depths  of  Richard's  soul,  as  if  she  stood  behind 
him,  and  her  face  looked  up  reflected  from  its  ethe- 
real ocean. 

All  at  once  he  was  aware  that  his  bodily  eyes  were 
resting  on  the  bodily  face  of  Barbara.  It  was  as  if 
his  strong  imagining  of  her  had  made  her  be.  His 
heart  gave  a  great  bound — and  stood  still,  as  if  for 
eternity.  But  the  blood  surged  back  to  his  brain, 
and  he  knew  that  together  they  had  been  listening  to 
the  same  enchanting  spell,  had  been  aloft  together 
in  the  same  aether  of  delight  :  heaven  is  high  and 
deep,  and  its  lower  air  is  music  ;  in  the  upper  regions 
the  music  may  pass,  who  knows,  merging  unlost, 
into  something  endlessly  better  !  He  had  felt,  with- 
out knowing  it,  the  power  of  her  presence  ;  it  had 
been  ruling  his  thoughts  !  He  gazed  and  gazed, 
never  taking  his  eyes  from  her  but  for  the  joy  of 
seeing  her  afresh,  for  the  comfort  of  their  return  to 
their  home.  She  was  so  far  off  that  he  could  gaze  at 
will,  and  thus  was  distance  a  blessing.  Not  seldom 
does  removal  bring  the  parted  nearer.  It  is  not 
death  alone  that  makes  "far-distant  images  draw 
nigh,"  but  distance  itself  is  an  angel  of  God,  mediat- 
ing the  propinquity  of  souls.  As  he  gazed  he  became 
aware  that  she  saw  him,  and  that  she  knew  that  he 
saw  her.  How  he  knew  it  he  could  not  have  told. 
There  was  no  change  on  her  face,  no  sign  of  recogni- 
tion, but  he  knew  that  she  saw  and  knew.      In  his 


A  DOOR  OPENED  IN  HEAVEN.  449 

modesty  he  neither  perceived  nor  imagined  more. 
His  heart  received  no  thrill  from  the  pleasure  that 
throbbed  in  the  heart  of  the  lovely  lady  at  sight  of 
the  poor  sorrowful  workman  ;  neither  did  she  in  her 
modesty  perceive  on  what  a  throne  of  gems  she  sat 
in  his  heart.  She  saw  that  his  cheek  was  pale  and 
thin,  and  that  his  eyes  were  larger  and  brighter  ;  she 
little  thought  how  the  fierce  sun  of  agony  had  ripened 
his  soul  since  they  parted. 

For  the  rest  of  the  concert,  the  music  had  sunk  to 
a  soft  delight,  and  took  the  second  place  ;  the  delight 
of  seeing  dulled  his  delight  in  hearing.  All  the  rain- 
bow claspings  and  weavings  of  strange  accords,  all 
the  wing-wafts  of  out-dreaming  melody,  seemed  to 
him  to  come  flickering  and  floating  from  one  creative 
centre — the  face,  and  specially  the  eyes  of  Barbara  ; 
yet  the  music  and  Barbara  seemed  one.  The  form 
of  it  that  entered  by  his  eyes  met  that  which  entered 
by  his  ears,  and  they  were  one  ere  he  noted  a  differ- 
ence. Barbara  was  the  music,  and  the  music  was 
Barbara.  He  saw  her  with  his  ears  ;  he  heard  her 
with  his  eyes.  But  as  the  last  sonata  sank  to  its 
death,  suddenly  the  face  and  the  tones  parted  com- 
pany, and  he  knew  that  his  eyes  and  her  face  must 
part  next,  and  the  same  moment  her  face  was  already 
far  away.  She  had  left  him  ;  she  was  looking  for 
her  fan,  and  preparing  to  go. 

He  was  not  far  from  the  door.  He  hurried  softly 
out,  plunged  into  the  open  air  as  into  a  great  cool 
river,  went  round  the  house,  and  took  his  stand  at 
one  of  the  doors,  where  he  waited  like  one  watching 
the  flow  of  a  river  of  gravel  for  the  shine  of  a  dia- 
mond. But  the  flow  sank  to  threads  and  drops,  and 
the  diamond  never  shone. 
29 


450  THERE    AND    BACK. 

He  walked  home,  nevertheless,  as  if  he  had  seen 
an  end  of  sorrow  :  how  much  had  been  given  him 
that  night,  for  ever  to  have  and  to  hold  !  Such  an 
hour  went  far  to  redeem  the  hateful  thing,  life  !  A 
much  worse  world  would  be  more  than  endurable, 
with  its  black  and  gray  once  or  twice  in  a  century 
crossed  by  such  a  band  of  gold  !  Who  would  not 
plunge  through  ages  of  vapor  for  one  flash  of  such 
a  star  !  Who  would  not  dig  to  the  centre  for  one 
glimpse  of  a  gem  of  such  exhaustless  fire  !  "But, 
alas,  how  many  for  whom  no  golden  threads  are 
woven  into  the  web  of  life  !  "  he  said  to  himself  as  he 
thought  of  Alice  and  Arthur — but  straightway  an- 
swered himself,  saying,  "  Who  dares  assert  it  ?  The 
secret  of  a  man's  life  is  with  himself  ;  who  can  speak 
for  another  !  "  He  had  himself  been  miserable,  and 
was  now  content— oh,  how  much  more  than  content 
— that  he  had  been  miserable  !  He  was  even  strong 
to  be  miserable  again  !  What  might  not  fall  to  the 
lot  of  the  rest,  every  one  of  them,  ere  God,  if  there 
were  a  God,  had  done  with  them  !  Who  invented 
music  ?  Some  one  must  have  made  the  delight  of  it 
possible  1  With  his  own  share  in  its  joy  he  had 
had  nothing  to  do  !  Was  Chance  its  grand  inventor, 
its  great  ingeniuer?  Why  or  how  should  Chance 
love  loveliness  that  was  not,  and  make  it  be,  that 
others  might  love  it  ?  Could  it  be  a  deaf  God,  or  a 
being  that  did  not  care  and  would  not  listen,  that 
invented  music  ?  No  ;  music  did  not  come  of  itself, 
neither  could  the  source  of  it  be  devoid  of  music  ! 


CHAPTER  XLV. 


THE  CARRIAGE. 


Before  the  next  Monday,  he  had  learned  the  out- 
lets of  the  hall,  and  the  relations  of  its  divisions  to 
its  doors.  But  he  fared  no  better,  for  whether  again 
he  mistook  the  door  or  not,  he  did  not  see  Barbara 
come  out.  He  had  been  with  her,  however,  through 
all  the  concert ;  there  was  reason  to  hope  she  would 
be  often  present,  and  every  time  there  would  be 
a  chance  of  his  getting  near  her .?  The  following 
Monday,  nevertheless,  she  was  not  in  the  house  : 
had  she  been,  he  said  to  himself,  his  eyes  would  of 
themselves  have  found  her. 

A  fortnight  passed,  and  Richard  had  not  again  seen 
Barbara.  He  began  to  think  she  must  have  gone 
home.  A  gentleman  was  with  her  the  first  night, 
whom  he  took  for  her  father  ;  the  second,  Arthur 
Lestrange  was  by  her  side  :  neither  of  them  had  he 
seen  since. 

Then  the  thought  suggested  itself  that  she  might 
have  come  to  London  to  prepare  for  her  marriage 
with  Mr.  Lestrange.  She  must  of  course  be  married 
some  day  !  He  had  always  taken  that  for  granted, 
but  now,  for  the  first  time  somehow,  the  thought 
came  near  enough  to  burn.  He  did  not  attempt  to 
analyze  his  feelings  ;  he  was  too  miserable  to  care 
for  his  feelings.  The  thought  was  as  terrible  as  if  it 
had   been    quite   new.      It  was    not  a  live    thought 


4  52  THERE    AND    BACK. 


before  ;  now  it  was  alive,  and  until  now  he  had  not 
known  misery.  That  Barbara  should  die  seemed 
nothing  beside  it !  Death  was  no  evil  !  Whether 
there  was  a  world  beyond  it  or  not,  it  was  the  one 
friend  of  the  race !  In  death  at  last,  outworn,  tor- 
tured humanity  would  find  repose  ! — or  if  not,  what 
followed  could  not,  at  worst,  be  worse  than  what  went 
before !  It  must  be  better,  for  the  one  misery  of 
■miseries  would  be  to  live  in  the  same  world  with 
Barbara  married  !  She  was  out  of  sight  of  him,  far 
as  princess  or  queen — or  angel,  if  there  were  such  a 
being  ;  but  the  thought  that  she  should  marry  a  com- 
mon, outside  man,  who  knew  no  more  what  things 
were  precious  than  the  lowest  fellow  in  the  slums, 
was  a  pain  he  could  neither  stifle  nor  endure.  Could 
a  woman  like  Barbara  for  an  instant  entertain  the 
notion  ?  If  she  loved  a  man  worthy  of  her,  then — 
he  thought,  as  so  many  have  for  a  moment  thought 
— he  could  bear  the  torture  of  it !  But  for  such 
patience  in  prospect  men  are  generally  indebted  to 
the  fact  that  the  man  is  not  likely  to  appear,  or,  at 
least,  has  not  yet  come  in  sight  In  vain  he  per- 
suaded himself  that  Barbara  would  no  more  listen  to 
such  a  suitor,  than  a  man  could  ever  show  himself 
on  the  level  of  her  love.  That  Barbara  would  marry 
Lestrange  grew  more  and  more  likely  as  he  regarded 
the  idea.  Mortgrange  and  Wylder  Hall  were  con- 
veniently near,  and  he  hadheard  his  grandfather  sup- 
pose that  Barbara  must  one  day  inherit  the  latter  ! 
The  thought  was  a  growing  torment.  His  heart  sank 
into  a  draw-well  of  misery,  out  of  which  the  rope  of 
thinking  could  draw  up  nothing  but  suicide.  But  as 
often  as  the  bucket  rose  thus  laden,  Richard  cast  its 
contents  from  him.      It  was  cowardlv  to  hide  one's 


THE    CARRIAGE.  453 


head  in  the  sand  of  death  !  So  long  as  he  was  able 
to  stand,  why  should  he  lie  down  ?  If  a  morrow  w^as 
on  the  way,  why  not  see  what  the  morrow  would 
bring?  why  not  look  the  apparition  in  the  face, 
though  for  him  it  brought  no  dawn  ? 

Once  more  the  loud  complaint  against  life  awoke 
and  raged.  What  an  evil,  what  a  wrong  was  life  ! 
Who  had  dared  force  the  thing  upon  him  ?  What 
being,  potent  in  ill,  had  presumed  to  call  him  from 
the  blessed  regions  of  negation,  the  solemn  quiet  of 
being  and  knowing  nothing,  and  compel  him  to  live 
without,  nay,  against  his  will,  in  misery  such  as  only 
an  imagination  keen  to  look  upon  suffering  could 
have  embodied  or  even  invented.?  Alas,  there  was 
no  help  !  If  he  lifted  his  hand  against  the  life  he 
hated,  he  might  but  rush  into  a  region  of  torture 
more  exquisite  !  For  might  not  the  life-compelling 
tyrant,  offended  that  he  should  desire  to  cease,  fix 
him  in  eternal  beholding  of  his  love  and  his  hate 
folded  in  one — to  sicken,  yet  never  faint,  in  aeonian 
pain,  such  as  life  essential  only  could  feel  ?  He  re- 
belled against  the  highest  as  if  the  highest  were  the 
lowest — as  if  the  power  that  cou/d  create  a  heart  for 
bliss,  might  gloat  on  its  sufferings. 

Again  and  again  he  would  take  the  side  of  God 
against  himself;  but  always  there  was  the  undeni- 
able, the  inexplicable  misery  !  Whence  came  it?  It 
could  not  come  from  himself,  for  he  hated  it  !  and  if 
God  did  not  cause,  yet  he  could  prevent  it  !  Then  he 
remembered  how  blessed  he  had  been  but  a  few  days 
before;  how  ready  to  justify  God;  how  willing  to 
believe  he  had  reason  in  all  he  did  :  alas  for  his 
nature,  for  his  humanity  !  clothed  in  his  own  joy,  he 
was  generous  to  trust  God  with   the  bliss  of  others  ;. 


454 


THERE    AND    BACK. 


the  cold  blast  of  the  world  once  again  swept  over 
him,  and  he  stood  complaining  against  him  more 
bitterly  than  ever  ! 

It  is  a  notable  argument,  surely,  against  the  exist- 
ence of  God,  that  they  who  believe  in  him,  believe 
in  him  so  wretchedly  !  So  many  carry  themselves 
to  him  like  peevish  children  !  Richard  half  believed 
in  God,  only  to  complain  of  him  altogether  !  Were  it 
not  better  to  deny  him  altogether,  saying  that  such 
things  being,  he  cannot  be,  than  to  murmur  and 
rebel  as  against  one  high  and  hard? 

But  I  bethink  me  :  is  it  not  better  to  complain  if  one 
but  complain  to  God  himself?  Does  he  not  then 
draw  nigh  to  God  with  what  truth  is  in  him  ?  And 
will  he  not  then  fare  as  Job,  to  whom  God  drew  nigh 
in  return,  and  set  his  heart  at  rest  ? 

For  him  who  complains  and  comes  not  near,  who 
shall  plead  ? — The  Son  of  the  Father,  saying,  "  They 
know  not  what  they  do." 

He  began  to  wonder  whether  even  an  all-mighty 
and  all-good  God  would  be  able  to  contrive  such  a 
world  as  no  somebody  in  it  would  ever  complain  of. 
What  if  he  had  plans  too  large  for  the  vision  of  men 
to  take  in,  and  they  were  uncomfortable  to  their  own 
blame,  because,  not  seeing  them,  they  would  trust 
him  for  nothing?  He  knew  unworthy  men  full  of 
complaint  against  an  economy  that  would  not  let 
them  live  like  demons,  and  be  blessed  as  seraphs  ! 
Why  should  not  a  man  at  least  wait  and  see  what  the 
possible  being  was  about  to  do  with  him,  perhaps 
for  him,  before  he  accused  or  denied  him  ?  At  worst 
he  would  be  no  worse  for  the  waiting  ! 

His  thinking  was  stopped  by  a  sudden  flood  of 
self-contempt.     Was  Barbara  to   live  alone  that  he 


THE    CARRIAGE.  455 


mig-ht  think  of  her  in  peace  !  He  was  a  selfish,  dis- 
graceful, degraded  animal,  deserving  all  he  suffered, 
and  ten  times  more  !  What  did  it  matter  whether  he 
was  happy  or  not,  if  it  was  well  with  her  !  Was  he 
a  man,  and  could  he  not  endure  !  Here  was  a 
possible  nobility  !  here  a  whole  world  wherein  to  be 
divine  !  A  man  was  free  to  sacrifice  his  happiness  : 
for  him,  he  had  nothing  but  his  crowned  sorrow  ;  he 
would  sacrifice  that !  Had  any  one  ever  sacrificed 
his  sorrow  to  his  love?  Would  it  not  be  a  new  and 
strange  sacrifice  ?  To  know  that  he  suffered  would 
make  her  a  little  unhappy  :  for  her  sake  he  would  noi 
be  unhappy  !  He  would  at  least  for  her  sake  fight 
with  his  grief;  he  would  live  to  love  her  still,  if  never 
more  to  look  on  her  face.  In  after  eternal  years,  if 
ever  once  more  they  met,  he  would  tell  her  how  for 
her  sake  he  had  lived  in  peace,  and  neither  died  nor 
gone  mad  !  Yea,  forher  sake,  he  would  still  seek  her 
God,  if  haply  he  might  find  him  !  Was  there  not  a 
possible  hope  that  he  would  justify  to  him,  even  in 
his  heart,  his  ways  with  men,  and  his  ways  with  him- 
self among  his  fellows  ?  What  if  there  was  a  way 
so  much  higher  than  ours,  as  to  include  all  the  seem- 
ing right  and  seeming  wrong  in  one  radiance  of 
righteousness  !  The  idea  was  scarce  conceivable  ; 
it  was  not  one  he  could  illustrate  to  himself;  but  as 
a  thought  transcending  flesh  and  blood,  better  and 
truer  than  what  we  are  able  to  think  of  as  truth,  he 
would  try  to  hold  by  it !  Things  that  we  are  right 
in  thinking  bad,  must  be  bad  to  God  as  well  as  to 
us  ;  but  may  there  not  be  things  so  far  above  us,  that 
we  cannot  take  them  in,  and  they  seem  bad  because 
they  are  so  far  above  us  in  goodness  that  we  see  them 
partially  and  untruly  ?     There  must  be  room  in  his 


456  THERE    AND    BACK. 


wisdom  for  us  to  mistake  !  He  would  try  to  trust  ! 
He  would  say,  "If  thou  art  my  father,  be  my  father, 
and  comfort  thy  child.  Perhaps  thou  hast  some  way  ! 
Perhaps  things  are  not  as  thou  wouldst  have  them, 
and  thou  art  doing  what  can  be  done  to  set  them 
right !  If  thou  art  indeed  true  to  thy  own,  it  were 
hard  not  to  be  believed — hard  that  one  of  thine  own 
should  not  trust  thee,  should  not  give  thee  time  to 
make  things  clear,  should  behave  to  thee  as  if  thou 
wouldst  not  explain,  when  it  is  that  we  are  unable  to 
understand  !  " 

He  was  thinking  with  himself  thus,  as  he  walked 
home,  late  one  Monday  night,  from  the  concert,  to 
which  had  come  none  of  the  singing  birds  of  his  own 
forests  to  meet  and  make  merry  with  the  song-birds  of 
the  violins.  Like  a  chaos  of  music  without  form  and 
void,  the  sweet  sounds  had  stormed  and  billowed 
against  him,  and  he  had  left  the  door  of  his  late 
paradise  hardly  in  better  mood  than  if  it  had  been 
the  church  of  the  Rev.  Theodore  Gosport,  who  for 
the  traditions  of  men  made  the  word  of  God  of  small 
effect ! 

He  was  walking  westward,  with  his  eyes  on  the 
ground,  along  the  broad  pavement  on  the  house-side 
of  Piccadilly,  lost  half  in  misery,  half  in  thought, 
when  he  was  stopped  by  a  little  crowd  about  an 
awning  that  stretched  across  the  footway.  The  same 
instant  rose  a  murmur  of  admiration,  and  down  the 
steps  from  the  door  came  tripping,  the  very  Allegra 
of  motion,  the  same  Barbara  to  whose  mould  his 
being  seemed  to  have  shaped  itself.  He  stood  silent 
as  death,  but  something  made  her  cast  a  look  on 
him,  and  she  saw  the  large  eyes  of  his  suffering 
fixed    on    her.     She  gave  a  short,  musical  cry,  and 


THE    CARRIAGE.  457 

turning  darted  through  the  crowd,  leaving  her  escort 
at  the  foot  of  the  steps. 

"Richard  !  "  she  cried,  and  catching  hold  of  his 
hand,  laid  her  other  hand  on  his  shoulder — then 
suddenly  became  aware  of  the  gazing  faces,  not  all 
pleasant  to  look  upon,  that  came  crowding  closer 
about  them. 

She  pulled  him  toward  a  brougham  that  stood  at 
the  curbstone. 

"Jump  in,"  she  whispered.  Then  turning  to  the 
gentleman,  who  in  a  bewildered  way  fancied  she 
had  caught  a  prodigal  brother  in  the  crowd,  "Good- 
night, Mr.  Cleveland,"  she  said  :    "thank  you  !" 

One  moment  Richard  hesitated  ;  but  he  saw  that 
neither  place  nor  time  allowed  anything  but  obedi- 
ence, and  when  she  turned  again,  he  was  already 
seated. 

"Home  !  "  she  said  to  the  coachman  as  she  got  in, 
for  she  had  no  attendant. 

"I  must  talk  fast, "  she  began,  "and  so  must  you  ; 
we  have  not  far  to  go  together. — Why  did  you  not 
write  to  me  ?  " 

"  I  did  write." 

"Did  you.?"  exclaimed  Barbara. 

"  I  did  indeed." 

"  Then  what  could  you  think  of  me  ?  " 

"  I  thought  nothing  you  would  not  like  me  to 
think.     I  was  sure  there  was  an  explanation  !  " 

"That  of  course  !  You  knew  that  ! — But  how  ill 
you  look  !  " 

"It  is  from  not  seeing  you  any  more  at  the  con- 
certs," answered  Richard. 

"Tell  me  your  address,  and  I  will  write  to  you. 


458  THERE    AND    BACK. 


But  do  not  write  to  me.  When  shall  you  be  at  the 
hall  again  ?  " 

''Next  Monday.     I  am  there  every  Monday," 

"I  shall  be  there,  and  will  take  your  answer  from 
your  hand  in  the  crush  as  I  come  out  by  the  Regent 
Street  door." 

She  pulled  the  coachman's  string. 

"Now  you  must  go,"  she  said.  "Thank  God  I 
have  seen  you  !  Tell  me  when  you  write  if  you 
know  anything  of  Alice." 

She  gave  him  her  hand.  He  got  out,  closed  the 
door,  took  off  his  hat,  and  stood  for  minutes  un- 
covered in  the  cold  clear  night,  hardly  sure  whether 
he  had  indeed  been  side  by  side  with  Barbara,  or  in 
a  heavenly  trance. 


CHAPTER   XLVI. 


RICHARDS       DILEMMA. 


He  turned  and  walked  home — but  with  a  heart 
how  different  !  The  world  was  folded  in  winter  and 
night,  but  in  his  heart  the  sun  was  shining,  and  it 
made  a  wonder  and  a  warmth  at  the  heart  of  every 
crystal  of  the  frost  that  spangled  and  feathered  and 
jewel-crusted  rail  and  tree  !  The  misty  moon  was 
dreaming  of  spring,  and  almond  blossoms,  and  night- 
ingales.— But  did  Barbara  know  about  him  ?  Had 
Alice  told  the  terrible  secret?  If  she  knew,  and  did 
not  withdraw  her  friendship,  he  could  bear  anything 
— almost  anything  1  But  he  would  be  happy  now, 
would  keep  happy  as  long  as  he  could,  and  try  to  be 
happy  when  he  could  not  !  She  was  with  him  all 
the  way  home.  Every  step  was  a  delight.  Foot 
lingered  behind  foot  as  he  came  ;  now  each  was 
eager  to  pass  the  other. 

He  slept  a  happy  sleep,  and  in  the  morning  was 
better  than  for  many  a  day — so  much  better  that  his 
mother,  who  had  been  watching  him  with  uneasiness, 
and  wondering  whether  she  ought  not  to  bring 
matters  to  a  crisis,  began  to  feel  at  rest  about  him. 
She  had  not  a  suspicion  of  what  now  troubled  him 
the  most  !  A  little  knowledge  is  not,  but  the  largest 
half-knowledge  is  a  dangerous  thing !  He  knew 
who  was  his  father,  but  he  did  not  know  who  was 
not  his  mother  ;  and  from  this  half-knowledge  rose 
the  thickest  of  the  cloud  that  yet  overshadowed  him. 


460  THERE    AND    BACK. 


He  had  been  proud  that  he  came  of  such  good 
people  as  his  father  and  mother,  but  it  was  not  the 
notion  of  shame  to  himself  that  greatly  troubled 
him  ;  it  was  the  new  feeling  about  his  mother.  He 
did  not  think  of  her  as  one  to  be  blamed,  but  as  one 
too  trusting,  and  so  deceived  ;  he  never  felt  unready 
to  stand  up  for  her.  What  troubled  him  was  that  she 
must  always  know  that  unspoken-of  something  be- 
tween her  and  her  son,  that  his  mother  must  feel 
shame  before  him.  He  could  not  bear  to  think  of  it. 
If  only  .she  would  say  something  to  him,  that  he 
might  tell  her  she  was  his  own  precious  mother,  what- 
ever had  befallen  her  !  that  for  her  sake  he  could  spurn 
the  father  that  begot  him  !  Already  had  come  this 
good  of  Mrs.  INIanson's  lie  that  Richard  felt  far  more 
the  goodness  of  his  mother  to  him,  and  loved  her 
the  better  that  he  believed  himself  her  shame.  It  is 
true  that  his  love  increased  upon  a  false  idea,  but 
the  growth  gained  by  his  character  could  not  be  lost, 
and  so  his  love  would  not  grow  less — for  no  love, 
that  is  loved,  save  God's,  can  clothe  warm  enough 
the  being  around  whom  it  gathers.  And  when  he 
learned  the  facts  of  the  story,  he  would  not  find  that 
he  had  given  his  aunt  more  love  than  she  deserved 
at  his  heart 

As  soon  as  the  next  day's  work  was  over,  Richard 
sat  down  to  write  to  Barbara.  But  he  had  no  sooner 
taken  the  pen  in  his  fingers,  than  he  became  doubt- 
ful :  what  was  he  to  say  ?  He  could  not  open  his 
heart  about  any  of  the  things  that  troubled  him 
most  !  Putting  aside  the  recurrent  dread  of  her  own 
marriage,  how  could  he  mention  his  mother's  wrong 
and  his  own  shame  to  a  girl  so  young.?  She  must 
be  aware  that  such  things  were,  but  how  was  he,  a 


Richard's  dilemma.  461 

huge  common  fellow,  to  draw  near  her  loveliness 
with  such  a  tale  in  his  mouth !  It  would  be  a 
wrong  to  his  own  class,  to  his  own  education  !  for 
would  it  not  show  the  tradesman,  or  the  artisan, 
whichever  they  called  him,  as  coarse,  and  unfit  for 
the  company  of  his  social  superiors  ?  It  would  go 
to  prove  that  in  no  sense  could  one  of  his  nurture 
be  regarded  as  a  gentleman  !  And  were  there  no 
such  reason  against  it,  how  could  he,  "even  to 
Barbara,  speak  of  his  mother's  hidden  pain,  of  his 
mother's  humiliation  !  It  would  be  treachery  !  He 
would  be  as  a  spy  that  had  hid  himself  in  a  holy 
place  !  The  thing  she  could  not  tell  him,  how  could 
he  tell  any  one  !  On  the  other  hand,  if  he  did  not 
let  her  know  the  sad  fact,  would  he  not  be  receiving 
and  cherishing  Barbara's  friendship  on  false  pre- 
tences? He  was  not  what  he  now  seemed  to  her — 
and  to  be  other  to  Barbara  than  he  seemed,  was  too 
terrible  !  Still  and  again,  he  was  bound  to  do  her 
the  justice  of  believing  that  she  would  not  regard  him 
differently  because  of  what  he  could  not  help,  and 
would  justify  his  silence  for  his  mother's  sake.  She 
would,  in  her  great  righteousness,  be  the  first  to  cry 
out  upon  the  social  rule  that  visited  the  sins  of  the 
fathers  on  the  mothers  and  children,  and  not  on  the 
fathers  themselves  !  If  then  disclosure  would  make 
no  difference  to  Barbara,  he  might,  he  concluded, 
let  the  thing  rest — for  the  time  at  least — assured  of 
her  sisterly  sympathy.  And  with  that  he  bethought 
him  that  she  had  asked  news  of  Alice,  and  it  seemed 
to  him  strange.  For  Alice  had  not  told  him  that, 
unable  to  keep  the  money  she  sent  from  falling  into 
the  hands  of  her  mother  and  going  in  drink,  un- 
willing to  expose  her  mother,  and  incapable  of  letting 


462  THERE    AND    BACK. 

Barbara  spend  her  money  so,  she  had  contrived  to 
have  her  remittances  returned,  as  if  they  had  changed 
their  dwelling,  and  their  new  address  was  unknown. 

He  wrote  therefore  what  he  thought  would  set  her 
at  ease  about  them  ;  and  then,  after  thinking  and 
thinking,  yielded  to  the  dread  lest  his  heart  should 
make  him  say  things  he  ought  not,  and  ended  with 
a  little  poem  that  had  come  to  him  a  night  or  two 
before. 

This  was  the  poem  : 

If  there  lie  a  still,  pure  sorrow 
At  the  heart  of  everything, 
If  never  shall  dawn  a  morrow 
With  healing  upon  its  wing, 
Then  down  I  kneel  to  my  sorrow, 
And  say,  Thou  art  my  king  ! 

From  old  pale  joy  I  borrow 

A  withered  song  to  sing  ! 

And  with  heart  entire  and  thorough, 

To  a  calm  despair  I  cling, 

And,  freed  man  of  old  king  Sorrow, 

Away  Hope's  fetters  fling  ! 

That  was  all — and  not  much,  either  as  poetry,  or 
as  consolation  to  one  that  loved  him  ;  but  sometimes, 
like  that  ghastly  shroud  of  Icelandic  fable,  the  poem 
will  rise  and  wrap  itself  around  the  poet. 

As  Richard  closed  his  envelope,  he  remembered, 
with  a  pang  of  self-reproach,  that  the  hour  of  his  usual 
meeting  with  Alice  was  past,  and  that  Arthur  too  was 
in  danger  of  going  to  bed  hungry,  for  his  custom  was 
to  put  her  brother's  supper  in  Alice's  handbag.  He 
set  out  at  once  for  Clerken well — on  foot  notwithstand- 
ing his  haste,  for  he  was  hoarding  every  penny  to 
get  new  clothes  for  Arthur,  who  was  not  only  much 


Richard's  dilemma.  463 

in  want  of  them  for  warmth,  but  in  risk  of  loosingf 
his  situation  because  of  his  shabby  appearance. 

His  anxiety  to  reach  the  house  before  the  mother 
came  in,  spurred  him  to  his  best  speed.  He  halted 
two  minutes  on  the  way  to  buy  some  sHces  of  ham 
and  some  rolls,  and  ran  on  ag-ain.  It  was  a  frosty 
night,  but  by  the  time  he  reached  Everilda  Street,  he 
was  far  from  cold.  He  was  rewarded  by  finding  his 
brother  and  sister  at  home,  alone,  and  not  too  hungry. 

He  had  just  time  to  empty  his  pockets,  and  receive 
a  kiss  from  Alice  in  return,  when  they  heard  the 
uncertain  step  of  their  mother  coming  up  the  stair, 
stopping  now  and  then,  and  again  resuming  the 
ascent.  Alice  went  to  watch  which  door  she  would 
turn  to  when  she  reached  the  top,  that  Richard  might 
go  out  by  the  other,  for  the  two  rooms  communicated. 
But  just  as  she  was  entering  Arthur's  room,  Mrs. 
Manson  changed  her  mind,  and  turned  to  the  other 
door,  so  that  Richard  was  caught  in  the  very  act  of 
making  his  exit.  She  flew  at  him,  seized  him  by  the 
hair,  and  began  to  pull  and  cuff  him,  abusing  him  as 
the  true  son  of  his  father,  who  did  everything  on  the 
sly,  and  never  looked  an  honest  woman  in  the  face. 
Richard  said  never  a  word,  but  let  her  tug  and  revile 
till  there  was  no  more  strength  in  her,  when  she  let 
him  go,  and  dropped  into  a  chair. 

The  three  went  half-way  down  the  stair  together. 

"Don't  mind  her,"  said  Alice  with  a  great  sob. 
"  I  hope  she  didn't  hurt  you  much,  Richard  !  " 

"  Not  a  bit,"  answered  Richard. 

"  Poor  mother  !  "  sighed  Arthur  ;  "  she's  not  in  her 
right  mind  !  We're  in  constant  terror  lest  she  drop 
down  dead  ! " 


464  THERE    AND    BACK. 

"She's  not  a  very  good  mother  to  you!"  said 
Richard. 

"No,  but  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  loving  her,'' 
answered  Alice;  "and  to  think  of  her  dying  like 
that,  and  going  straight  to  the  bad  place  !  Oh,  Rich- 
ard, what  shall  I  do  !  It  turns  me  crazy  to  think 
of  it  !  " 

The  door  above  them  opened,  and  the  fierce  voice 
of  the  mother  fell  upon  them  ;  but  it  was  broken  by 
a  fit  of  hiccupping,  and  she  went  in  again,  slamming 
the  door  behind  her. 


CHAPTER  XLVIL 

THE  DOORS  OF  HARMONY  AND  DEATH. 

That  night  Richard  could  not  rest.  His  brain 
wrought  unceasingly. 

He  had  caught  cold  and  was  feverish.  After  his 
hot  haste  to  reach  his  brother  and  sister,  he  had  stood 
on  the  stair  till  his  temperature  sank  low.  When  at 
length  he  slept,  he  kept  starting  awake  from  troublous 
dreams,  and  this  went  on  through  the  night.  In  the 
morning  he  felt  better,  and  rose  and  set  to  his  work, 
shivering  occasionally.  All  the  week  he  was  unwell, 
and  coughed,  but  thought  the  attack  an  ordinary  cold. 
When  Sunday  came,  he  kept  his  bed,  in  the  hope 
of  getting  rid  of  it ;  but  the  next  day  he  was  worse. 
He  insisted  on  getting  up,  however  :  he  must  not  seem 
to  be  ill,  for  he  was  determined,  if  he  could  stand,  to 
go  to  the  concert !  What  with  weariness  and  short- 
ness of  breath  and  sleepiness,  however,  it  was  all  he 
could  do  to  stick  to  his  work.  But  he  held  on  till  the 
evening,  when,  watching  his  opportunity,  he  slipped 
from  the  house  and  made  his  way,  with  the  help  of 
an  omnibus,  to  the  hall. 

It  was  dire  work  waiting  till  the  door  to  the  orches- 
tra was  opened.  The  air  was  cold,  his  lungs  heavily 
oppressed,  and  his  languor  almost  overpowering. 
But  paradise  was  within  that  closed  door,  and  he 
was  passing  through  the  pains  of  death  to  enter  into 
bliss  !  When  at  length  it  seemed  to  yield  to  his 
prayers,  he  almost  fell  in  the  rush,  but  the  good- 
30 


4.66  THERE    AND    BACK. 


humored  crowd  itself  succored  the  pale  youth,  and 
helped  him  in  :  to  look  at  him  was  to  see  that  he 
was  ill ! 

The  moment  the  music  began,  he  forgot  every 
discomfort.  For,  with  the  first  chord  of  the  violins, 
as  if  ushered  in  and  accompanied  by  the  angels  them- 
selves of  the  sweet  sounds,  Barbara  came  flitting 
down  the  centre  of  the  wide  space  toward  her  usual 
seat.  The  rows  of  faces  that  filled  the  area  were  but 
the  waves  on  which  floated  the  presence  of  Barbara  ; 
the  music  was  the  natural  element  of  her  being  ;  it 
flowed  from  her  as  from  its  fountain,  radiated  from 
her  like  odor.  It  fashioned  around  her  a  nimbus  of 
sound,  like  that  made  by  the  light  issuing  from 
the  blessed  ones,  as  beheld  by  Dante,  which  revealed 
their  presence  but  hid  them  in  its  radiance,  as  the 
moth  is  hid  in  the  silk  of  its  cocoon.  Richard  felt 
entirely  well.  The  warmth  entered  into  him,  and 
met  the  warmth  generated  in  him.  All  was  peace 
and  hope  and  bliss,  quaintest  mingling  of  expectation 
and  fruition.  Even  Arthur  Lestrange  beside  Barbara 
could  not  blast  his  joy.  He  saw  him  occasionally 
offer  some  small  attention  ;  he  saw  her  carelessly 
accept  or  refuse  it.  Barbara  gazed  at  him  anxiously, 
he  thought  ;  but  he  did  not  know  he  looked  ill  ;  he 
had  forgotten  himself. 

When  the  concert  was  over,  he  hastened  from  the 
orchestra.  The  moment  he  issued,  the  cold  wind 
seized  and  threatened  to  strangle  him,  but  he  con- 
quered in  the  struggle,  and  reached  the  human  tor- 
rent debouching  in  Regent  Street.  Against  it  he 
made  gradual  way,  until  he  stood  near  the  inner  door 
of  the  hall.  In  a  minute  or  two  he  saw  her  come, 
slowly  with  the  crowd,  her  hand  on  Arthur's  arm,  her 


THE  DOORS  OF  HARMONY  AND  DEATH.       467 

eyes  anxiously  searching  for  Richard.  The  moment 
they  found  him,  her  course  took  a  drift  toward  him, 
and  her  face  grew  white  as  his,  for  she  saw  more 
plainly  that  he  was  ill.  They  edged  nearer  and 
nearer  ;  their  hands  met  through  the  crowd ;  their 
letters  were  exchanged,  and  without  a  word  they 
parted.  As  Barbara  reached  the  door,  she  turned  one 
moment  to  look  for  him,  and  he  saw  a  depth  of  care 
angelic  in  her  eyes.  Arthur  turned  too  and  saw  him, 
but  Richard  was  so  changed  he  did  not  recognize 
him,  and  thought  the  suffering  look  of  a  stranger  had 
roused  the  sympathy  of  his  companion. 

How  he  got  home,  Richard  could  not  have  told. 
Ere  he  reached  the  house,  he  was  too  ill  to  know 
anything  except  that  he  had  something  precious  in 
his  possession.  He  managed  to  get  to  bed — not  to 
leave  it  for  weeks.  A  severe  attack  of  pneumonia 
had  prostrated  him,  and  he  knew  nothing  of  his  con- 
dition or  surroundings.  He  had  not  even  opened  his 
letter.  He  remembered  at  intervals  that  he  had  a 
precious  thing  somewhere,  but  could  not  recall  what 
it  was. 

When  he  came  to  himself  after  many  days,  it  was 
with  a  wonderful  delight  of  possession,  though 
whether  the  object  possessed  was  a  thing,  or  a 
thought,  or  a  feeling,  or  a  person,  he  could  not  dis- 
tinguish. 

"Where  is  it.?"  he  said,  nor  knew  that  he  spoke 
till  he  heard  his  own  voice. 

"  Under  your  pillow,"  answered  his  mother. 

He  turned  his  eyes,  and  saw  her  face  as  he  had 

never  seen  it  before — pale,  and  full  of  yearning  love 

and  anxious  joy.     There  was  a  gentleness  and  depth 

in  its  expression  that  was  new  to   him.     The   divine 


468  THERE    AND    BACK. 


motherhood  had  come  nearer  the  surface  in  her  boy's 
ilhiess. 

Partly  from  her  anxiety  about  what  she  had  done 
and  what  she  had  yet  to  do,  the  show  of  her  love 
had,  as  the  boy  grew  up,  gradually  retired  ;  her  love 
burned  more,  and  shone  less.  If  Jane  Tuke  had  been 
able  to  let  her  love  appear  in  such  forms  as  suited  its 
strength,  I  doubt  whether  the  teaching  of  his  father 
would  have  had  much  power  upon  Richard  ;  cer- 
tainly he  would  have  been  otherwise  impressed  by 
the  faith  of  his  mother.  He  would  have  been  prej- 
udiced in  favor  of  the  God  she  believed  in,  and 
would  have  sought  hard  to  account  for  the  ways 
attributed  to  him.  None  the  less  would  it  have  been 
through  much  denial  and  much  suffering  that  he 
arrived  at  anything  worth  calling  faith  ;  while  the 
danger  would  have  been  great  of  his  drifting  about 
in  such  indifference  as  does  not  care  that  God  should 
be  righteous,  and  is  ready  to  call  anything  just  which 
men  in  office  declare  God  does,  without  concern 
whether  it  be  right  or  wrong,  or  whether  he  really 
does  it  or  not — without  concern  indeed  about  any- 
thing at  all  that  is  God's.  He  would  have  had 
phantoms  innumerable  against  him.  He  would  have 
supposed  the  Bible  said  things  about  God  which  it 
does  not  say,  things  which,  if  it  did  say  them,  ought 
to  be  enough  to  make  any  honest  man  reject  the 
notion  of  its  authority  as  an  indivisible  whole.  He 
would  have  had  to  encounter  all  the  wrong  notions 
of  God,  dropped  on  the  highway  of  the  universe,  by 
the  nations  that  went  before  in  the  march  of  humanity. 
He  would  have  found  it  much  harder  to  work  out  his 
salvation,  to  force  his  freedom  from  the  false  forms 
given  to  truth  by  interpreters  of  little  faith,  for  they 


THE    DOORS    OF    HARMONY    AND    DEATH.  469 

would  have  seemed  bora  in  him  because  loved  into 
him. 

"  What  did  you  say,  mother  dear?  "  he  returned, 
all  astray,  seeming  to  have  once  known  several  things, 
but  now  to  know  nothing  at  all. 

"It  is  under  your  pillow,  Richard,"  she  said  again, 
very  tenderly. 

"  What  is  it,  mother.?  Something  seems  strange. 
I  don't  know  what  to  ask  you.  Tell  me  what  it 
means," 

"You  have  been  very  ill,  my  boy  ;  that  is  what  it 
means." 

"  Have  I  been  out  of  my  mind  ? " 

"  You  have  been  wandering  with  the  fever,  nothing 
more." 

"I  have  been  thinking  so  many  things,  and  they 
all  seemed  real  ! — And  you  have  been  nursing  me  all 
the  long  time  !  "  . 

"Who  should  have  been  nursing  you,  Richard? 
Do  you  think  I  would  let  any  one  else  nurse  my 
own  child  ?     Didn't  1  nurse  the " 

She  stopped;  she  had  been  on  the  point  of  saying 
—  "the  mother  that  bore  you?"  Her  love  of  her 
dead  sister  was  one  with  her  love  of  that  sister's 
living  child. 

He  lay  silent  for  a  time,  thinking,  or  rather  trying 
to  think,  for  he  felt  like  one  vainly  endeavoring  to 
get  the  focus  of  a  stereoscopic  picture.  His  mind 
kept  going  away  from  him.  He  knew  himself  able 
to  think,  yet  he  could  not  think.  It  was  a  revelation 
to  him  of  our  helplessness  with  our  own  being,  of 
our  absolute  ignorance  of  the  modes  in  which  our 
nature  works — of  what  it  is,  and  what  we  can  and 
cannot  do  with  it. 


4  7°  THERE    AND    BACK. 

"  Shall  I  get  it  for  you,  clear?"  said  his  mother. 

The  morning  after  the  concert,  he  had  taken 
Barbara's  letter  from  under  his  pillow,  and  would 
not  let  it  out  of  his  hand.  His  mother,  fearing  he 
would  wear  it  to  pieces,  once  and  again  tried  to  re- 
move it  ;  but  the  moment  she  touched  it,  he  would 
cry  out  and  strike  ;  and  when  in  his  restless  turning 
he  dropped  it,  he  showed  himself  so  miserable  that 
she  could  not  but  put  it  in  his  hand  again,  when  he 
would  lie  perfectly  quiet  for  a  while.  Dreaming  of 
Barbara  however,  I  fancy,  he  at  length^  forgot  her 
letter,  and  his  mother  again  put  it  under  his  pillow. 
With  the  Lord,  we  shall  forget  even  the  gospel  of 
John. 

She  drew  out  the  crumpled,  frayed  envelope,  and 
gave  it  him.  The  moment  he  touched  it,  everything 
came  back  to  him. 

"Now  I  remember,  mother  !"  he  cried.  "Thank 
you,  mother  !  I  will  try  to  be  a  better  boy  to  you. 
I  am  sorry  I  ever  vexed  you." 

"  You  never  vexed  me,  Richard  !  "  said  the  mother- 
heart ;  " — or  if  ever  you  did,  I've  forgotten  it.  And 
now  that  God  has  given  you  back  to  us,  we  must 
see  whether  we  can't  do  something  better  for  you  !  " 

Richard  was  so  weary  that  he  did  not  care  to  ask 
what  she  meant,  and  in  a  moment  was  asleep,  with 
the  letter  in  his  hand. 

When  at  length  he  was  able  to  read  it,  it  caused 
him  not  a  little  pleasure,  and  some  dismay.  He  read 
that  her  father  was  determined  she  should  marry  Mr. 
Lestrange  ;  but  her  mother  was  against  it  ;  and  there 
was  as  much  dissension  at  home  as  ever.  She  be- 
lieved Lady  Ann  had  talked  her  father  into  it,  for  he 
had  not  always  favored  the  idea.     There  was  indeed 


THE  DOORS  OF  HARMONY  AND  DEATH.       47 1 

greater  reason  now  why  both  Lady  Ann  and  her 
father  should  desire  it,  for  there  was  every  Hkelihood 
of  her  being  left  sole  heir  to  the  property,  as  her 
brother  could  not,  the  doctors  said,  live  many  months. 
She  was  sure  her  mother  was  trying  to  do  right,  and 
she  herself  did  all  she  could  to  please  her  father,  but 
nothing  less  than  her  consent  to  his  plans  for  what 
he  called  her  settlement  in  life,  would  satisfy  him, 
and  that  she  could  not  give. 

She  hoped  Richard  was  not  forgetting  the  things 
they  had  such  talks  about  in  the  old  days.  If  it  were 
not  for  those  things,  she  could  not  now  bear  life,  or 
rightly  take  her  part  in  it.  She  was  almost  never 
alone,  and  now  in  constant  danger  of  interruption, 
so  that  he  must  not  wonder  if  her  letter  broke  off 
abruptly,  for  she  might  be  wanted  any  moment. 
She  was  leading,  or  rather  being  led,  a  busy  life  of 
nothing  at  all — a  life  not  worth  living.  Her  father, 
set  on,  she  had  no  doubt,  by  Lady  Ann,  had  brought 
her  up  to  town  while  yet  her  mother  was  unable  to 
accompany  them,  so  that  she  had  had  to  go  where, 
and  do  what  Lady  Ann  pleased.  But  her  mother 
had  at  last,  exerting  herself  even  beyond  her  strength, 
come  up  to  stand  by  her  girl,  as  she  said  :  she  would 
have  no  Lady  Ann  interfering  with  her  !  She  had  her- 
self married  a  man  she  had  not  learned  to  respect,  and 
she  was  determined  her  girl  should  make  her  own 
choice — or  keep  as  she  was,  if  she  pleased  !  She 
vi^as  not  going  to  hold  her  child  down  for  them  to  bury 
in  money  ! — And  with  this  the  letter  broke  off. 

Barbara's  openness  about  her  parents  was  in  har- 
mony with  her  simplicity  and  straight-forwardness. 
She  was  proud  of  her  mother  and  the  way  she  put 
things,  therefore  told  all  to  Richard. 


472 


THERE    AND    BACK. 


He  had  a  bad  night,  with  deUrious  dreams,  and 
for  some  days  made  little  progress.  His  anxiety  to 
be  well,  that  he  might  see  Barbara,  and  learn  how 
things  were  going  with  her,  also  that  he  might  again 
see  Alice  and  Arthur,  for  whom  he  feared  much, 
retarded  his  recovery. 

"If  the  woman  is  drinking  herself  to  death,"  he 
said  to  himself,  "I  wish  she  would  be  quick  about 
it !  In  this  world  she  is  doing  no  good  to  herself, 
and  much  harm  to  others  ! " 

But  it  would  be  the  ruin,  he  said  to  himself,  of  all 
hope  in  the  care  and  love  of  God,  to  believe  that  she 
could  be  allowed  to  live  a  moment  longer  than  it 
was  well  she  should  live.  Then  he  thought  how 
wise  must  be  a  God  who,  to  work  out  his  intent, 
would  take  all  the  conduct,  good  and  bad,  all  the 
endeavors  of  all  his  children,  in  all  their  contrarieties, 
and  out  of  them  bring  the  right  thing.  If  he  knew 
such  a  God,  one  to  trust  in  absolutely,  he  would  lie 
still  without  one  movement  of  fear,  he  would  go  to 
sleep  without  one  throb  of  anxiety  about  any  he  loved  ! 
The  perfect  Love  would  not  fail  because  one  of  his 
children  was  sick  !  He  would  try  to  be  quiet,  if  only 
in  the  hope  that  there  was  a  perfect  heart  of  hearts, 
thinking  love  to  and  into  and  about  all  its  creatures. 
If  there  was  such  a  splendor,  he  would  either  make 
him  well,  and  send  him  out  again  to  do  for  Alice  and 
Arthur  what  he  could,  or  he  would  let  him  die  and 
go  where  all  he  loved  would  come  after  him — where 
he  might  perhaps  help  to  prepare  a  place  for  them  ! 

If  matter  be  all,  then  must  all  illness  be  blinding  ; 
if  spirit  be  the  deeper  and  be  the  causer,  then  some 
sicknesses  may  well  be  openers  of  windows  into  the 
unseen.     It  is  true  that  in  one  mood  we  are  ready  to 


THE  DOORS  OF  HARMONY  AND  DEATH.        473 

doubt  the  conclusions  of  another  nnood  ;  but  there 
is  a  power  of  judging- between  the  moods  themselves, 
with  a  perception  of  their  character  and  nature,  and 
the  comparative  clarity  of  insight  in  each  ;  and  he 
who  is  able  to  judge  the  moods  may  well  judge  the 
judgments  of  the  moods. 

One  of  the  benefits  of  illness  is,  that,  either  from 
general  weakness  or  from  the  brain's  being  cast  into 
quiescence,  habits  are  broken  for  a  time,  and  more 
simple,  childlike  and  natural  modes  of  thought  and 
feeling,  modes  more  approximate  to  primary  and 
original  modes,  come  into  action,  whereby  the  right 
thing  has  a  better  chance.  A  man's  self-stereotyped 
thinkingis  unfavorable  to  revelation,  whether  through 
his  fellows  or  direct  from  the  divine.  If  there  be  a 
divine  quarter,  those  must  be  opener  to  its  influences 
who  are  not  frozen  in  their  own  dullness,  cased  in 
their  own  habits,  bound  by  their  own  pride  to  fore- 
gone conclusions,  or  shut  up  in  the  completeness  of 
human  error,  theorizing  beyond  their  knowledge  and 
power. 

Having  thus  in  a  measure  given  himself  up,  Rich- 
ard began  to  grow  better.  It  is  a  joy  to  think  that  a 
man  may,  while  anything  but  sure  about  God,  yet 
come  into  correlation  with  him  !  How  else  should 
we  be  saved  at  all  ?  For  God  alone  is  our  salvation  ; 
to  know  him  is  salvation.  He  is  in  us  all  the  time, 
else  we  could  never  move  to  seek  him.  It  is  true 
that  only  by  perfect  faith  in  him  can  we  be  saved, 
for  nothing  but  perfect  faith  in  him  is  salvation  :  there 
is  no  good  but  him,  and  not  to  be  one  with  that  good 
by  perfect  obedience  is  to  be  unsaved  ;  but  one  bet- 
ter thought  concerning  him,  the  poorest  desire  to 
draw  near  him,  is  an  approach  to  him.     Very  unsure 


474  THERE    AND    BACK. 

of  him  we  may  be  :  how  should  we  be  sure  of  what 
we  do  not  yet  know?  but  the  unsureness  does  not 
nulHfy  the  approach.  A  man  may  not  be  sure  that 
the  sun  is  risen,  may  not  be  sure  that  the  sun  will 
ever  rise,  yet  has  he  the  good  of  what  light  there  is. 
Richard  was  fed  from  the  heart  of  God  without  know- 
ing that  he  was  indeed  partaking  of  the  spirit  of  God. 
He  had  been  partaking  of  the  body  of  God  all  his  life. 
The  world  had  been  feeding  him  with  its  beauty  and 
essential  truth,  with  the  sweetness  of  its  air,  and  the 
vastness  of  its  vault  of  freedom.  But  now  he  had 
begun,  in  the  words  of  St.  Peter,  to  be  a  partaker  of 
the  divine  nature. 

It  was  a  long  time  before  he  was  strong  again — in 
fact,  he  never  would  be  so  strong  again  in  this  world. 
His  mother  took  him  to  the  seaside,  where,  in  a 
warm  secluded  bay  on  the  south  coast,  he  was  wrapt 
closer,  shall  I  not  say,  in  the  garments  of  the  creat- 
ing and  reviving  God.  He  was  again  a  child,  and 
drew  nearer  to  the  heart  of  his  mother  than  he  had 
ever  drawn  before.  Believing  he  knew  her  sad  se- 
cret, he  set  himself  to  meet  her  every  wish — which 
was  always  some  form  of  anxiety  about  himself.  He 
spoke  so  gently  to  her,  that  she  felt  she  had  never 
until  now  had  him  her  very  child.  How  little  men 
think,  alas,  of  the  duty  that  lies  in  tone!  But  Richard 
was  started  on  a  voyage  of  self-discovery.  He  had 
begun  to  learn  that  regions  he  had  thought  whole- 
some, productive  portions  of  his  world,  were  a  terra 
incognita  of  swamps  and  sandy  hills,  haunted  with 
creeping  and  stinging  things.  When  a  man  finds  he 
is  not  what  he  thought,  that  he  has  been  talking  fine 
things,  and  but  imagining  he  belonged  to  their  world, 
he  is  on  the  way  to  discover  that  he  is  not  up  to  his 


THE  DOORS  OF  HARMONY  AND  DEATH.       475 

duty  in  the  smallest  thing.  When,  for  very  despair, 
it  seems  impossible  to  go  on,  then  he  begins  to  know 
that  he  needs  more  than  himself;  that  there  is  none 
good  but  God  ;  that,  if  he  can  gain  no  help  from  the 
perfect  source  of  his  being,  that  being  ought  not  to 
have  been  given  him  ;  and  that,  if  he  does  not  cry 
for  help  to  the  father  of  his  spirit,  the  more  pleasant 
existence  is  the  less  he  deserves  it  should  continue. 
Richard  was  beginning  to  feel,  in  his  deepest  nature, 
where  alone  it  can  be  felt,  his  need  of  God,  not 
merely  to  comfort  him  in  his  sorrows,  and  so  render 
life  possible  and  worth  living,  but  to  make  him  such 
that  he  could  bear  to  regard  himself ;  to  make  him 
such  that  he  could  righteously  consent  to  be.  The 
only  thing  that  can  reassure  a  man  in  respect  of  the 
mere  fact  of  his  existence,  is  to  know  himself  started 
on  the  way  to  grow  better,  with  the  hope  of  help 
from  the  source  of  his  being  :  how  should  he  by 
himself  better  that  which  he  was  powerless  to  create  ? 
All  betterment  must  be  radical  :  of  the  roots  of  his 
being  he  knows  nothing.  His  existence  is  God's  ; 
his  betterment  must  be  God's  too  ! — God's  through 
honest  exercise  by  man  of  that  which  is  highest  in 
man — his  own  will,  God's  best  handiwork.  By 
actively  willing  the  will  of  God,  and  doing  what  of  it 
lies  to  his  doing,  the  man  takes  the  share  offered  him 
in  his  own  making,  in  his  own  becoming.  In  will- 
ing actively  and  operatively  to  be  that  which  he  was 
made  in  order  to  be,  he  becomes  creative — so  far  as 
a  man  may.  In  this  kind  also  he  becomes  like  his 
Father  in  heaven. 

If  a  reader  say  Richard  was  too  young  to  think 
thus,  it  only  proves  that  he  could  not  think  so  at  Rich- 
ard's age,  and  goes  for  little.      I  may  be  interpreting, 


476  THERE    AND    BACK, 

and  rendering  more  definite  the  thoughts  and  feelings 
that  passed  through  him  :  it  does  not  follow  that  I 
misrepresent.  Many  thoughts  must  be  made  more 
definite  in  expression,  else  they  could  not  be  expressed 
at  all ;  many  feelings  are  as  hazy  as  real,  and  some 
of  them  must  be  left  to  music. 

He  grew  in  graciousness  and  in  favor  with  God  and 
his  mother.  Often  did  she  meditate  whether  the 
hour  was  not  come  for  the  telling  of  her  secret,  but 
now  one  thing,  now  another  deterred  her.  One  time 
she  feared  the  excitement  in  the  present  state  of  his 
health  ;  another,  she  judged  it  unfair  to  the  husband 
who  had  behaved  with  such  generosity,  to  yield  him 
no  part  in  the  pleasure  of  the  communication. 

Once,  to  comfort  him  when  he  seemed  depressed, 
she  ventured  to  say — 

"Would  you  like  better  to  go  to  Oxford  or  to  Cam- 
bridge,  Richard .?  " 

He  looked  up  with  a  smile. 

"What  makes  you  ask  that,  mammy  ?  "  he  rejoined. 

"Perhaps  it  could  be  managed  !  "  she  answered — 
leaving  him  to  suppose  his  father  might  send  him. 

"Is  it  because  you  think  I  shall  never  be  able  to 
work  again  .? — Look  at  that  !  "  he  returned,  extending 
an  arm  on  which  the  muscle  had  begun  to  put  in  an 
appearance. 

"It's  not  for  your  strength,"  she  answered.  "For 
that,  you  could  do  well  enough  !  But  think  of  the 
dust  !  It's  so  irritating  to  the  lungs  !  And  then  there's 
the  stooping  all  day  long  !  " 

"Never  mind,  mother;  I'm  quite  able  for  it,  dust 
and  all — or  at  least  shall  soon  be.  We  mustn't  be 
anxious  about  others  any  more  than  about  ourselves. 
Doesn't  the  God  you  believe  in  tell  you  so  ? " 


THE  DOORS  OF  HARMONY  AND  DEATH.       477 

"  Don't  you  believe  in  him  then,  Richard  ?  "  said  his 
mother  sadly. 

"  I  think  I  do — a  little — in  a  sort  of  a  way — believe 
in  God — but  I  hope  to  believe  in  him  ten  thousand 
times  more  !  " 

His  mother  gave  a  sigh. 

"What  more  would  you  have,  mother  dear  .''"said 
Richard.      "  A  man  cannot  be  a  saint  all  at  once  !  " 

' '  No,  indeed,  nor  a  woman  either  !  "  she  answered. 
"I've  been  a  believer  all  these  years,  and  I'm  no 
nearer  a  saint  than  ever." 

"But  you're  trying  to  be  one,  ain't  you,  mammy?" 

She  made  him  no  reply,  and  presently  reverted  to 
their  former  topic — perhaps  took  refuge  in  it. 

"I  think  it  might  be  managed — some  day  !  "  she 
said.  "  You  could  go  on  with  your  trade  after,  if 
you  liked.  Why  shouldn't  a  college-man  be  a  trades- 
man .?  Why  shouldn't  a  tradesman  know  as  much  as 
a  gentleman  ? " 

"Why,  indeed,  mother!  If  I  thought  it  wouldn't 
be  too  much  for  father  and  you,  there  are  not  many 
things  I  should  like  better  than  going  to  Oxford. — 
You  are  good  to  me  like  God  himself!  " 

"  Richard  I  "  said  bis  mother,  shocked.  She  thought 
she  served  God  by  going  to  church,  not  by  being 
like  him  in  every  word  and  look  of  love  she  gave 
her  boy. 

The  mere  idea  of  going  to  college,  and  thus  taking 
a  step  nearer  to  Barbara,  began  immediately  to 
better  his  health.  It  gave  him  many  a  happy 
thought,  many  a  cottage  and  castle  in  the  air,  with 
more  of  a  foundation  than  he  knew.  But  his  mother 
did  not  revert  to  it  ;  and  one  day  suddenly  the 
thought  came  to  Richard  that  perhaps  she  meant  to 


.78  THERE    AND    RACK. 


apply  to  Sir  Wilton  for  the  means  of  sending  him. 
Castle  and  cottage  fell  in  silent  ruin.  His  soul  re- 
coiled from  the  idea  with  loathing— as  much  for  his 
mother's  sake  as  his  own.  Having  married  his 
reputed  father,  she  must  have  no  more  relation,  for 
good  any  more  than  for  bad,  with  Sir  Wilton — least 
of  all  for  his  sake  !  To  her  he  was  dead  ;  and  ought 
to  be  as  dead  as  disregard  could  make  him  !  So,  at 
least,  thought  Richard.  He  was  sorry  he  had  con- 
fessed he  should  like  to  go  to  Oxford.  If  his  mother 
again  alluded  to  the  thing,  he  would  tell  her  he  had 
changed  his  mind,  and  would  not  interrupt  the  exer- 
cise of  his  profession  as  surgeon  to  old  books. 


CHAPTER  XLVIII. 

DEATH     THE     DELIVERER. 

The  spring  advanced ;  the  days  grew  a  little 
warmer  ;  and  at  length,  partly  from  economic  con- 
siderations, it  was  determined  they  should  go  home. 
When  they  reached  London,  they  found  a  great  dif- 
ference in  the  weather  :  it  cannot  be  said  she  owes 
her  salubrity  to  her  climate.  Fog  and  drizzle,  frost 
and  fog,  were  the  embodiment  of  its  unvarying 
mutability.  At  once  Richard  was  worse,  and  dared 
not  think,  for  his  mother's  sake,  and  the  labor  she 
had  spent  upon  him,  of  going  to  the  next  popular 
concert,  if  indeed  those  delights  had  not  ceased  for 
the  season.  But  he  ought  to  try,  for  he  could  do 
that  in  the  middle  of  the  day,  at  least  to  get  news  of 
Arthur  Manson.  He  dreaded  hearing  that  he  was  no 
more  in  this  world.  The  cold  wintry  weather,  and 
the  return  to  poor  and  spare  nourishment  caused  by 
Richard's  illness,  must  have  been  hard  upon  him  ! 
It  was  a  continual  sorrow  to  Richard  that  he  had  not 
been  able  to  get  him  his  new  clothes  before  he  was 
taken  ill.  So  the  first  morning  he  felt  it  possible,  he 
took  his  way  to  the  city.  There  he  learned  that  the 
company  had  dispensed  with  Arthur's  services,  be- 
cause his  attendance  had  become  so  irregular. 

"You  see,  sir,"  said  the  porter,  "  the  gov'nors  they 
don't  think  no  more  of  a  man  than  they  do  of  a 
horse  :  so  long  as  he  can  hold  the  shafts  up  an'  lean 


480  THERE    AND    BACK. 

agiii  the   collar,    he's    money  ;    when    he    can't    no 
longer,  he's  dirt !  " 

Sad  at  heart,  Richard  set  out  for  Clerkenwell.  He 
was  ill  able  for  the  journey,  but  Arthur  was  dying- ! 
He  would  brave  the  mother  for  the  sake  of  the  son  ! 
He  got  into  an  omnibus  which  took  him  a  good  part 
of  the  way,  and  walked  the  rest.  When  at  length  he 
looked  up  at  the  dreary  house,  he  saw  the  blinds  of 
the  windows  drawn  down.  A  pang  of  fear  went 
through  his  heart,  and  an  infilial  murmur  awoke  in 
his  brain  : — why  was  he,  on  whom  those  poor  lives 
almost  depended,  made  feeble  as  themselves,  and 
incapable  of  helping  them  ?  After  all  his  hoping  and 
trusting,  cou/d  there  be  a  God  in  the  earth  and  things 
go  like  that  ?  The  look  of  things  seemed  the  truth 
of  things ;  the  seen  denied  the  unseen.  Cold  and 
hunger  and  desertion  ;  ugly,  mocking  failure  ;  heart- 
less comfort,  and  hopeless  misery,  made  up  the  law 
of  life  !  Moody  and  wretched  he  went  up  the  stair 
to  the  darkened  floor. 

When  he  knocked  at  the  front  room,  that  in  which 
Alice  slept  with  her  mother,  it  was  opened  by  Alice, 
looking  more  small  and  forlorn  than  he  had  yet  seen 
her,  with  hollower  cheeks  and  larger  eyes,  and  a  smile 
to  make  an  angel  weep. 

"Richard!"  she  cried,  with  a  voice  in  which  the 
very  gladness  sounded  like  pain.  A  pink  flush  rose 
i»  her  poor  wasted  cheeks,  and  she  lay  still  in  his 
arms  as  if  she  had  gone  to  live  there. 

He  could  not,  for  pity,  speak  one  word. 

"  How  ill  you  look  ! "  she  murmured.  "  I  knew 
you  must  be  ill  !  I  thought  you  might  be  dead  !  Oh, 
God  IS  good  to  leave  you  to  us  !  "  Then  bursting 
into  tears.      "  How  wicked  of  me,"  she  sobbed,   "  to 


DEATH    THE    DELIVERER.  48 1 

feel  anything  like  gladness,  with  my  mother  lying 
there,  and  me  not  able  to  do  anything  for  her,  and  not 
knowing  what "s  to  become  of  her,  or  how  things  are 
going  with  her  ! — We  shall  never  see  her  again  !  " 

"Don't  say  that,  Alice!  Never  say  never  about 
anything  except  it  be  bad.  You  can't  be  sure  you 
know.  You  can't  be  sure  of  anything  that's  not  in 
your  very  mouth — and  then  sometimes  you  can't 
swallow  it ! — But  how's  Arthur  .?  " 

"He'll  know  all  about  it  soon!"  she  answered, 
with  a  touch  of  bitterness.  "  If  he  had  been  left  me, 
we  should  have  got  along  somehow.  He  would 
have  lain  in  bed,  and  I  would  have  worked  beside 
him  !  How  I  could  have  worked  ioxhim!  But  he's 
past  hope  now  !     He'll  never  get  up  again." 

"O  God,"  cried  Richard  in  his  heart,  where  an 
agony  of  will  wrestled  with  doubt,  "if  thou  art,  thou 
wilt  hear  me,  and  take  pity  on  her,  and  on  us  all  !— 
I  dare  not  pray,  Alice,"  he  went  on  aloud,  "that  he 
may  live,  but  I  will  pray  God  to  be  with  him.  It 
would  be  poor  kindness  to  want  him  left  with  us,  if 
he  is  taking  him  where  he  will  be  well.  May  I  go 
and  see  him  t  " 

"Surely,  Richard.— But  mayn't  I  let  him  know  first.? 
The  surprise  might  be  too  much  for  him." 

Their  talk  had  waked  him,  however,  and  he  knew 
his  brother's  voice.  "  Richard  !  Richard  !  "  he  cried, 
so  loud  that  it  startled  Alice  :  he  had  not  spoken  above 
a  whisper  for  days.  Richard  opened  his  door,  and 
went  in.  But  when  he  saw  Arthur,  he  could  scarcely 
recognize  him,  he  was  so  wasted.  His  eyes  stood  out 
like  balls  from  his  sunken  cheeks,  and  the  smile  with 
which  he  greeted  him  was  all  teeth,  like  the  helpless 
smile  of  a  skull.       Overcome   with  tenderness,    the 


482  THERE    AND    BACK. 

stronger  that  he  would  have  passed  him  in  the  street 
as  one  unknown,  Richard  stooped  and  kissed  his  fore- 
head, then  stood  speechless,  holding  the  thin  leaf  of 
a  hand  that  strained  his.  Arthur  tried  to  speak,  but 
his  cough  came  on,  and  his  brother  begged  him  to  be 
silent. 

"  I  will  go  into  the  next  room  with  Alice,"  he  said, 
"  and  come  to  you  again.  I  shall  see  you  often  now, 
I  hope.  I've  been  ill  or  I  should  have  been  here 
fifty  times." 

In  the  next  room  lay  the  motionless  form  of  the 
unmotherly  inother.  A  certain  something  of  human 
grace  had  returned  to  her  countenance.  Richard  did 
not  like  looking  at  her;  he  felt  that  not  loving  her, 
he  had  no  right  to  let  his  eyes  rest  on  her.  But  she 
had  been  sinned  against  like  his  own  mother  :  he  must 
not  fail  her  with  what  sympathy  she  might  claim  ! 

"Don't  think  hard  things  of  her,"  said  Alice,  as  if 
she  knew  what  he  was  thinking,  "She  had  not  the 
strength  of  some  people.  I  believe  myself  she  could 
not  help  it.  She  had  been  used  to  everything  she 
wanted  1  " 

"I  pity  her  heartily,"  answered  Richard. 

She  threw  her  arms  round  his  neck,  and  clung  to 
him  as  if  she  would  never  more  let  him  go. 

"  But  what  am  I  to  do.?"  she  said,  releasing  him. 
"  If  I  stay  at  home  to  nurse  Arthur,  we  must  both  die 
of  hunger.  If  I  go  away,  there  is  nobody  to  do  any- 
thing for  him  !  " 

"  I  wish  I  could  stay  with  him  !  "  returned  Richard. 
"But  I've  been  so  long  ill  that  I  have  no  money,  and 
I  don't  know  when  I  shall  have  any.  I  have  just 
one  shilling  in  my  possession.     Take  it,  dear." 

"I  can't  take  your  last  shilling,  Richard  !  " 


DEATH    THE    DELIVERER.  483 

"There's  no  fear  of  me,"  he  said;  "I  shall  have 
everything  I  vv^ant.  It  makes  me  ashamed  to  think 
of  it.  You  must  just  creep  on  for  a  while  as  best  you 
can,  while  I  think  what  to  do.  Only  there's  the 
funeral !  " 

Alice  gave  a  cry  choked  by  a  sob. 

"There  is  no  help!"  she  said  in  a  voice  of  de- 
spair.     "The  parish  is  all  that  is  left  us  !  " 

"  It  don't  matter  much,"  rejoined  Richard.  "For 
my  part  I  don't  care  a  paring  what  becomes  of  my 
old  clothes  when  I've  done  with  them  !  You  needn't 
think,  whether  she  be  anywhere  or  nowhere,  that  she 
cares  how  her  body  gets  put  under  the  earth  !  Don't 
trouble  about  it,  AIic§  ;  it  really  is  nothing.  I  would 
come  to  the  funeral,  but  I  don't  see  how  I  can.  I 
don't  know  now  what  I  shall  say  to  my  mother  ! — 
Tell  Arthur  I  hope  to  see  him  again  soon  ;  I  must  not 
stop  now,  I  won't  forget  you,  Alice — not  for  an  hour, 
I  think.  Beg  some  one  in  the  house  to  go  in  to  him 
now  and  then  while  you  are  away.  I  shall  soon  do 
something  to  cheer  him  up  a  bit.  Good-night,  dear  !  " 
With  a  heavy  heart  Richard  went.  It.  was  all  he 
could  do  to  get  home  before  dark,  having  to  walk  all 
the  way.  His  mother  was  much  distressed  to  see  him 
so  exhausted ;  but  he  managed  not  to  tell  her  what 
he  had  been  about.  He  had  some  tea  and  went  to 
bed,  and  there  remained  all  the  next  day.  And  while 
he  was  in  bed,  it  came  to  him  clear  and  plain  what 
he  must  do.  It  was  certain  that  for  a  long  time  he 
could  do  nothing  for  Arthur  and  Alice  out  of  his  own 
pocket.  Even  if  he  got  to  work  at  once,  he  could  not 
take  his  wages  as  before,  seeing  his  parents  had  spent 
upon  him  almost  all  they  had  saved  ! 

But   thece    was    one   who   ou<^hi  to    help    them  ! 


484  THERE    AND    BACK 


Specially  in  such  sore  need  had  they  a  right  to  the 
saving  help  of  their  own  father  !  He  would  go  to 
his  father  and  their  father — and  as  the  words  rose  in 
his  mind,  he  wondered  where  he  had  heard  some- 
thing like  them  before. 

The  next  day  he  begged  his  father  and  mother  to 
let  him  spend  a  week  or  two  with  his  grandfather. 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 


THE    CAVE    IN    THE    FIRE, 


The  day  after,  well  wrapt  from  the  cold,  he  took 
his  place  in  a  slow  train,  and  at  the  station  was 
heartily  welcomed  by  his  grandfather,  who  had  come 
with  his  pony-cart  to  take  him  home.  Settled  in  the 
room  once  occupied  by  Alice,  he  felt  like  a  usurper, 
a  robber  of  the  helpless  ;  he  had  left  her  in  misery 
and  wretchedness,  and  was  in  the  heart  of  the  com- 
fort that  had  once  been  hers.  He  had  to  tell  himself 
that  it  was  foolish ;  that  he  was  there  for  her  sake. 

He  took  his  grandfather  at  once  into  his  confidence, 
begging  him  not  to  let  his  mother  know  ;  and  Simon, 
who  had  in  former  days  experienced  something  of 
the  hardness  of  his  true-hearted  daughter,  entered 
into  the  thing  with  a  brooding  kind  of  smile.  He 
saw  no  reason  why  Richard  should  not  make  the 
attempt,  but  shook  his  head  at  the  prospect  of  suc- 
cess. Doubtless  the  baronet  thought  he  had  done 
♦all  that  could  be  required  of  him  !  H^e  would  have 
Richard  rest  a  day  before  encountering  him,  but 
when  he  heard  in  what  condition  he  had  left  Alice 
and  her  brother,  he  said  no  more,  but  the  next  morn- 
ing had  his  trap  ready  to  drive  him  to  INIortgrange. 

With  feelings  akin  to  none  that  he  had  ever  before 
experienced,  Richard  drdw  near  to  the  familiar  place 
and  looked  again  upon  the  familiar  sights.  The 
house  that  he  had  entered  so  often  as  a  workman  he 
now  entered  as  a  son.     But  what  manner  of  son  was 


486  THERE    AND    BACK. 


he,  and  how  would  he  be  received  should  he  take  it 
upon  himself  to  disclose  his  identity?  He  had  re- 
solved, however,  to  say  nothing,  to  do  nothing,  that 
should  lead  toward  such  a  disclosure.  He  was  there 
for  another  purpose,  and,  in  the  justice  of  the  demand 
he  was  to  make,  he  sunk  all  personal  claims  or 
desires. 

Richard's  heart  beat  fast  as  he  passed  through  the 
lodge-gate,  and  walked  up  to  the  front  door.  After  a 
moment's  bewilderment,  the  servant  who  answered 
his  ring  recognized  him,  and  expressed  concern  that 
he  looked  so  ill.  When  he  asked  to  see  Sir  Wilton, 
the  man,  thinking  he  came  to  resume  the  work  so 
suddenly  abandoned,  said  he  was  in  the  library, 
having  his  morning  cigar. 

"Then  I'll  just  step  in  !"  said  Richard  ;  and  the 
footman  gave  way  as  to  a  member  of  the  household. 

Sir  Wilton,  now  an  elderly  and  broken  man,  sat  in 
the  same  chair,  and  in  the  same  attitude,  as  when 
Richard,  a  new-born  and  ugly  child,  had,  in  the  arms 
of  his  aunt,  his  first  interview  with  him,  nearly  one- 
and-twenty  years  before.  The  relation  between 
them  had  not  developed  a  hair's-breadth  since  that 
moment,  and  Richard,  partly  from  the  state  of  his 
health,  could  not,  with  all  the  courage  he  could 
gather,  help  quailing  a  little  before  the  expected  en-* 
counter  ;  but  he  remained  outwardly  quiet  and  seem- 
ingly cool.  The  sun  was  not  shining  into  the  room, 
and  it  was  rather  dark.  Sir  Wilton  sat  with  his  back 
to  the  one  large  bay-window,  and  Richard  received 
its  light  on  his  face  as  he  entered.  He  stood  an  in- 
stant, hesitating.  His  father  did  not  speak,  but  sat 
looking  straight  at  him,  staring  indeed  as  at  some- 
thing portentous — much  as   when   first  he  saw  the 


THE    CAVE    IN    THE    FIRE.  487 

Ugly  apparition  of  his  infant  heir.  Richard's  illness 
had  brought  out,  in  the  pallor  and  emaciation  of  his 
countenance,  what  likeness  there  was  in  him  to  his 
mother  ;  and,  strange  to  say,  at  the  moment  when 
the  door  opened  to  admit  him.  Sir  Wilton  was  think- 
of  the  monstrous  baby  his  wife  had  left  him,  and 
wondering  if  the  creature  were  still  alive,  and  as 
hideous  as  twenty  years  before. 

It  was  not  very  strange,  however.  Sir  Wilton  had 
been  annoyed  with  his  wife  that  morning,  and  it  was 
yet  a  bitterer  thing  not  to  be  able  to  hurt  her  in 
return,  which,  because  of  her  cold  imperturbability, 
was  impossible,  say  what  he  might.  As  often,  there- 
fore, as  he  sat  in  silent  irritation  with  her,  the  thought 
of  his  lost  child  never  failed  to  present  itself.  What 
a  power  over  her  ladyship  would  he  not  possess, 
what  a  plough  and  harrow  for  her  frozen  equanim- 
ity, if  only  he  knew  where  the  heir  to  Mortgrange 
was  !  He  was  infernally  ugly,  but  the  uglier  the 
better  !  If  he  but  had  him,  he  swore  he  would  have 
a  merry  time,  with  his  lady's  pride  on  its  marrow- 
bones !  After  so  many  years  the  poor  lad  might, 
ugly  as  he  was,  turn  out  presentable,  and  if  so,  then, 
by  heaven,  that  smooth-faced  gentleman,  Arthur, 
should  shift  for  himself! 

Suddenly  appeared  Richard,  with  his  mother  in 
his  face  ;  and  before  his  father  had  time  to  settle 
what  it  could  all  mean,  the  apparition  spoke. 

"  I  am  very  sorry  to  intrude  upon  you,  Sir  Wilton," 
he  said,  "but " 

Here  he  paused. 

" — But  you've  got  something  to  tell  me — eh.?" 
suggested  Sir  Wilton.  He  was  on  the  point  of  add- 
ing.     "If  it  be  where  you  got  those  eyes,   I  may 


THERE    AND    BACK. 


have  to  ask  you  to  sit  down  !  "  but  he  checked  him- 
self, and  said  only,  "You'd  better  make  haste,  then  ; 
for  the  devil  is  at  the  door  in  the  shape  of  my  cursed 
gout  !  " 

"I  came  to  tell  you,  Sir  Wilton,"  replied  Richard, 
plunging  at  once  into  the  middle  of  things,  which 
was  indeed  the  best  way  with  Sir  Wilton,  "about  a 

son  of  yours " 

"What!"  cried  Sir  Wilton,  putting  his  hands  on 
the  arms  of  his  chair  and  leaning  forward  as  if  on 
the  point  of  rising  to  his  feet.  "Where  is  he  ?  What 
do  you  know  about  him  ?  " 

"He  is  lying  at  the  point  of  death— dying  of  hun- 
ger I  may  say." 

"Rubbish!"  cried  the  baronet,  contemptuously. 
"You  want  to  get  money  out  of  me!  But  you 
shan't !— not  a  shilling,  not  a  penny  !  " 

"I  do  want  to  get  money  from  you,  sir,"  said 
Richard.  "  I  kept  the  poor  fellow  alive— kept  him  in 
dinners  at  least,  him  and  his  sister,  till  I  fell  ill  and 
couldn't  work." 

At  the  word  sisler  the  baronet  grew  calmer.     It 
was  nothing  about  the  lost  heir  !     The  other  sort  did 
not  matter  :  they  were  no  use  against  the  enemy  ! 
Richard  paused.     The  baronet  stared. 
"I  haven't  a  penny  to   call  my  own,  or  I  should 
not  have  come  to  you,"  resumed  Richard. 

"I  thought  so  !  That's  your  orthodox  style  !  But 
you've  come  to  the  wrong  man  !  "  returned  Sir  Wil- 
ton.     "I  never  give  anything  to  beggars." 

He  did  not  in  the  least  doubt  what  he  heard, 
but  he  scarcely  knew  what  he  answered — wondering 
where  he  had  seen  the  fellow,  and  how  he  came  to 
be  so  like  his  wife.     The  remembered  ugliness  of  her 


THE    CAVE    IN    THE    FIRE.  489 

infant  prevented  all  suggestion  that  this  handsome 
fellow  might  be  the  same. 

"You  are  the  last  man,  Sir  Wilton,  from  whom  I 
would  ask  anything  for  myself,"  said  Richard. 

"Why  so?  " 

Richard  hesitated.  To  let  him  suspect  the  same 
claim  in  himself,  would  be  fatal. 

"I  swear  to  you.  Sir  Wilton,"  he  said,  "by  all 
that  men  count  sacred,  I  come  only  to  tell  you  that 
Arthur  and  Alice  Manson,  your  son  and  daughter, 
are  in  dire  want.  Your  son  may  be  dead  ;  he  looked 
like  it  three  days  ago,  and  had  no  one  to  attend  to 
him  ;  his  sister  had  to  leave  him  to  earn  their  next 
day's  food.  Their  mother  lay  a  corpse  in  the  other 
of  their  two  rooms." 

"Oh!  she's  gone,  is  she?  That  alters  the  case. 
But  what  became  of  all  the  money  I  gave  her  ?  It 
was  more  than  her  body  was  worth  ;  soul  she  never 
had  ! " 

"She  lost  the  money  somehow,  and  her  son  and 
daughter  starved  themselves  to  keep  her  in  plenty, 
so  that  by  the  time  she  died,  they  were  all  but  dead 
themselves." 

"  A  pair  of  fools.". 

"A  good  son  and  daughter,  sir  !  " 

"Attached  to  the  young  woman,  eh?"  asked  the 
baronet,  looking  hard  at  him. 

"Very  much ;  but  hardly  more  than  to  her  brother," 
answered  Richard.  "  God  knows  if  I  had  but  my 
strength,"  he  cried,  almost  in  despair,  and  suddenly 
shooting  out  his  long  thin  arms,  with  his  two  hands, 
wasted  white,  at  the  ends  of  them,  "  I  would  work 
myself  to  the  bone  for  theni,  and  not  ask  you  for  a 
penny  !  " 


490 


THERE    AND    BACK. 


"  I  provided  for  their  mother  ! — why  didn't  they 
look  after  the  money  ?  I'm  not  accountable  for 
them  !  " 

"Ain't  you  accountable  for  giving  the  poor  things 
a  mother  like  that,  sir  ?  " 

"By  Jove,  you  have  me  there!  She  was  a  bad 
lot — a  most  infernal  liar  ! — Young  fellow,  I  don't 
know  who  you  are,  but  I  like  your  pluck  !  There 
aren't  many  I'd  let  stand  talking  at  me  like  that !  I'll 
give  you  something  for  the  poor  creatures — that  is, 
mind  you,  if  you've  told  me  the  truth  about  their 
mother  !  You're  sure  she's  dead  ?  Not  a  penny 
shall  they  have  if  she's  alive  !  " 

"  I  saw  her  dead,  sir,  with  my  own  eyes." 

"You're  sure  she  wasn't  shamming  .?  " 

"  She  couldn't  have  shammed  anything  so  peace- 
ful." 

The  baronet  laughed. 

"Believe  me,  sir,"  said  Richard,  "she's  dead — 
and  by  this  time  buried  by  the  parish." 

"  God  bless  my  soul  !  Well,  it's  none  of  my 
fault  !  " 

"  She  ate  and  drank  her  own  children  !  "  said 
Richard  with  a  groan,  for  his  strength  was  failing 
him.      He  sank  into  a  chair. 

"I  will  give  you  a  check,"  said  Sir  Wilton,  rising, 
and  going  to  a  writing-table  in  the  window.  "I  will 
give  you  twenty  pounds  for  them  in  the  meantime — 
and  then  we'll  see — we'll  see  ! — that  is,"  he  added, 
turning  to  Richard,  "  if  you  swear  by  God  that  you 
have  told  me  nothing  but  the  truth  !  " 

"I  swear,'  said  Richard,  solemnly,  "by  all  my 
hopes  in  God  the  saviour  of  men,  that  I  have  not 
wittingly  uttered  a  word  that  is  untrue  or  incorrect" 


THE    CAVE    IN    THE    FIRE.  49 1 

"That's  enough.      I'll  give  you  the  check." 

He  turned  again  to  the  table,  sat  down,  searched 
for  his  keys,  unlocked  and  drew  out  a  drawer,  took 
from  it  a  check-book,  and  settled  himself  to  write 
vi'ith  deliberation,  thinking  all  the  time.  When  he 
had  done  : — 

"  Have  the  goodness  to  come  and  fetch  your 
money,"  he  said,  tartly. 

"With  pleasure!"  answered  Richard,  and  went 
up  to  the  table. 

Sir  Wilton  turned  on  his  seat,  and  looked  him  in 
the  face,  full  in  the  eyes.  Richard  steadily  encoun- 
tered his  gaze. 

"  What  is  your  name.?  "  said  Sir  Wilton  at  length. 
"  I  must  make  the  check  payable  to  you  !  " 

"  Richard  Tuke,  sir,"  answered  Richard. 

"  What  are  you  ?  " 

"A  bookbinder.  I  was  here  all  the  summer,  sir, 
repairing  your  library." 

"Oh!  bless  my  soul  !— Yes  !  that's  what  it  was  I 
I  thought  I  had  seen  you  somewhere  !  Why  didn't 
you  tell  me  so  at  first.?" 

"  It  had  nothing  to  do  with  my  coming  now,  and 
I  did  not  imagine  it  of  any  interest  to  you,  sir." 

"  It  would  have  saved  me  the  trouble  of  trying  to 
remember  where  I  had  seen  you  !  " 

Then  suddenly  a  light  flashed  across  his  face. 

"By  heaven,"  he  muttered,  "I  understand  it  now  ! 
— They  saw  it — that  look  on  his  face  ! — By  Jove  ! — 
But  no;  she  never  saw  her! — She  must  have  heard 
something  about  him  then  ! — They  didn't  treat  you 
well,  I  believe  !  "  he  said  ;  " — turned  you  away  at 
a  moment's  notice  ! — I  hope  they  took  that  into  con- 
sideration when  they  paid  you  ?  " 


492  THERE    AND    BACK. 


"  I  made  no  complaint,  sir.  I  never  asked  why  I 
was  dismissed  !  " 

"  But  they  made  it  up  to  you — didn't  they  ?  " 

"1  don't  submit  to  ill-usage,  sir." 

"  That's  right !  I'm  glad  you  made  them  pay  for 
it!  " 

"To  take  money  for  ill-usage  is  to  submit  to  it,  it 
seems  to  me  !  "  said  Richard. 

"By  Jove,  there  are  not  many  would  call  money 
ill-usage  ! — Well,  it  wasn't  right,  and  I'll  have 
nothing  to  do  with  it ! — Here,"  he  went  on,  wheeling 
round  to  the  table,  and  drawing  his  check-book 
toward  him,  "I  will  give  you  another  check  for 
yourself." 

' '  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir, "  said  Richard,  ' '  but  I  can 
take  nothing  for  myself!  Don't  you  see,  sir.? — As 
soon  as  I  was  gone,  you  would  think  I  had  after  all 
come  for  my  own  sake  !  ' 

"I  won't,  I  promise  you.  I  think  you  a  very 
honest  fellow  !  " 

"Then,  sir,  please  continue  to  think  me  so,  and 
don't  offer  me  money  !  " 

"  Lest  you  should  be  tempted  to  take  it.?" 

"  No  ;  lest  I  should  annoy  you  by  the  use  I  made 
of  it  !  " 

"Tut,  tut!  I  don't  care  what  you  do  with  it! 
You  can't  annoy  me  !  " 

He  wrote  a  second  check,  blotted  it,  then  finished 
the  other,  and  held  out  both  to  Richard. 

"  I  can't  give  you  so  much  as  the  other  poor  beg- 
gars ;  you  haven't  the  same  claim  upon  me  !  "  he 
said. 

Richard  took  the  checks,  looked  at  them,  put  the 


THE    CAVE    IN    THE    FIRE.  493 

larger  in  his  pocket,  walked  to  the  fire,  and  placed 
the  other  in  the  hottest  cavern  of  it. 

"  By  Jove  !"  cried  the  baronet,  and  again  stared 
at  him  :  he  had  seen  his  mother  do  precisely  the 
same  thiiig — w^ith  the  same  action,  to  the  very  turn 
of  her  hand,  and  with  the  same  choice  of  the  central 
gulf  of  fire  ! 

Richard  turned  to  Sir  Wilton,  and  would  have 
thanked  him  again  on  behalf  of  Alice  and  Arthur, 
but  something  got  up  in  his  throat,  and,  with  a  grate- 
ful look  and  a  bend  of  the  head,  he  made  for  the 
door  speechless. 

"I  say,  I  say,  my  lad!"  cried  Sir  Wilton,  and 
Richard  stopped. 

"There's  something  in  this,"  the  baronet  went  on, 
"more  than  I  understand!  I  would  give  a  big 
check  to  know  what  is  in  your  mind  !  What  does 
it  all  mean  ?  " 

Richard  looked  at  him,  but  said  nothing  :  he  was 
in  some  sort  fascinated  by  the  old  man's  gaze. 

"Suppose  now,"  said  Sir  Wilton,  "  I  were  to  tell 
you  I  would  do  whatever  you  asked  me  so  far  as  it 
was  in  my  power — what  would  you  say.''" 

"That  I  would  ask  you  for  nothing, "  answered 
Richard. 

"I  make  the  promise;  I  say  solemnly  that  I  will 
give  you  whatever  you  ask  of  me — provided  I  can 
do  it  honestly,"  said  the  baronet.  And  then  the 
thought  came  to  him,  "What  an  infernal  fool  I  am  ! 
The  devil  is  in  me  to  let  the  fellow  walk  over  me 
like  this !  But  I  must  know  what  it  all  means  !  I 
shall  find  some  way  out  of  it  !  " 

For  one  moment  the  books  around  him  seemed  to 


494  THERE    AND    BACK. 


Richard  to  rush  upon  his  brain  Hke  troops  to  the 
assault  of  a  citadel ;  but  the  next  he  said  : 

"I  can  ask  you  for  nothing  whatever,  sir;  but  I 
thank  you  from  my  heart  for  my  poor  friends,  your 
children.     Believe  me,  I  am  grateful."         • 

With  a  lingering  look  at  his  father,  he  left  the 
room. 


CHAPTER   L. 


DUCK-FISTS. 


The  godless  old  man  was  strangely  moved.  He 
rose,  but  instead  of  ringing  the  bell,  hobbled  after 
Richard  to  the  door.  As  he  opened  it,  however,  he 
heard  the  hall-door  close.  He  went  to  it,  but  by  the 
time  he  reached  it,  the  bookbinder  had  turned  a 
corner  of  the  house,  to  go  by  a  back-way  to  the  spot 
where  his  grandfather  was  waiting  for  him. 

He  found  him  in  his  cart,  immovably  expectant, 
his  pony  eating  the  grass  at  the  edge  of  the  road. 
Before  he  got  his  head  pulled  up,  Richard  was  in  the 
cart  beside  him. 

"Drive  on,  grandfather,"  he  panted  in  triumph. 
"I've  got  it !  " 

"  Got  what,  lad  .?"  returned  the  old  man,  with  a 
flash  in  his  eyes  and  a  forward  strain  of  his  neck. 

"What  I  wanted.     Money.     Twenty  pounds." 

"Bah  !  twenty  pounds  !  "  returned  Simon  with  con- 
tempt, and  a  jerk  of  his  head  the  other  way. 

He  had  himself  noted  Richard's  likeness  to  his 
daughter,  and  imagined  it  impossible  Sir  Wilton 
should  not  also  see  it. 

"But  of  course,"  he  went  on,  "twenty  pounds 
will  be  a  large  sum  to  them,  and  give  them  time  to 
look  about,  and  see  what  can  be  done.  And  now 
I'll  tell  you  what,  lad  :  if  the  young  man  is  fit  to  be 
moved  when  you  go  back,  you  just  bring  him  down 


496  THERE    AND    BACK. 


here — to  the  cottage,  I  mean — and  it  sha'n't  cost  him 
a  ha'penny.  I've  a  bit  of  a  nest-egg  as  ain't  chalk 
nor  yet  china  ;  and  Jessie  is  going  to  be  well  married  ; 
and  who  knows  but  the  place  may  suit  him  as  it  did 
his  sister  !     You  look  to  it  when  you  get  home."' 

"I  will  indeed,  grandfather  ! — You're  a  good  man, 
grandfather  :  the  poor  things  are  no  blood  of  yours  !  " 

"Where's  the  odds  o'  that !  "  grunted  Simon,  "  I 
reckon  it  was  your  God  and  mine  as  made  'em  !  " 

Richard  felt  in  his  soul  that,  little  reason  as  he  had 
to  be  proud  of  his  descent,  he  had  at  least  one  noble 
grandfather. 

"You're  a  good  man,  grandfather  !"  he  repeated 
meditatively. 

"  Middlin',"  returned  the  old  man,  laughing.  "I'm 
not  so  good  by  a  long  chalk  as  my  maker  meant  me, 
and  I'm  not  so  bad  as  the  devil  would  have  me.  But 
if  I  Were  the  powers  that  be,  I  wouldn't  leave  things 
as  they  are  !  I'd  have  'em  a  bit  straightened  out 
afore  I  died  !  " 

"That  shows  where  you  come  from,  Mr.  Wingfold 
would  say  ;  for  that  is  just  what  God  is  always 
doing. '' 

"I  know  the  man;  I  know  your  Mr.  Wingfold! 
Since  you  went,  he's  been  more  than  once  or  twice 
to  the  smithy  to  ask  after  you.  He's  one  o'  the  right 
sort,  he  is  !  He's  a  man,  he  is  ! — not  an  old  woman 
in  breeches  !  My  soul  !  why  don't  they  walk  and 
talk  and  look  like  men  ?  Most  on  'em  as  I've  seen 
are  no  more  like  men  than  if  they  was  drawn  on  the 
wall  with  a  coal !  If  they  was  all  like  your  INIr. 
Wingfold  now  !  Why,  the  devil  wouldn't  have  a 
chance!  I've  a  soft  heart  for  the  clergy — always  had, 
though  every  now  and  then  they  do  turn  me  sick  !  " 


DUCK-FISTS.  497 

They  were  spinning  along  the  road,  half-way  home, 
behind  the  little  four-legged  business  in  the  shafts, 
when  they  became  aware  of  a  quick  sharp  trot  behind 
them.  Neither  looked  round ;  the  blacksmith  was 
minding  his  pony  and  the  clergy,  and  the  twenty 
pounds  in  Richard's  heart  were  making  it  sing  a  new 
song.  What  a  thing  is  money  even,  with  God  in  it ! 
The  horseman  came  alongside  the  cart,  and  slackened 
his  pace. 

"Sir  Wilton  wants  to  see  Mr.  Tuke  again,"  he  said. 
"He  made  a  mistake  in  the  check  he  gave  him." 

An  arrow  of  fear  shot  through  Richard's  heart. 
What  did  it  mean  !  Was  the  precious  thing  going 
to  be  taken  from  him  ?  Was  his  hope  to  be 
destroyed  and  his  heart  left  desolate?  He  took 
the  check  from  his  pocket  and  examined  it.  Simon 
had  pulled  up  his  pony,  and  they  were  standing  in 
the  middle  of  the  highway,  the  old  man  waiting  his 
grandson's  decision.  Richard  was  not  unaccustomed 
to  checks  in  payment  of  his  work,  and  he  could  see 
nothing  amiss  with  the  baronet's  :  it  was  made  payable 
to  bearer,  and  not  crossed  :  Alice  could  take  it  to 
tlie  bank  and  get  the  money  for  it !  The  next 
moment,  however,  he  noted  that  it  was  payable  at  a 
branch-bank  in  the  town  of  Barset,  near  Mortgrange. 
The  baronet,  he  concluded,  had,  with  more  care  than 
he  would  have  expected  of  him,  thought  of  this,  and 
that  it  would  cause  trouble,  so  had  sent  his  man  to 
bring  him  back,  that  he  might  replace  the  check 
with  one  payable  in  London.  His  heart  warmed 
toward  his  father. 

"I  see  !  "  he  said.  "I'm  sorry  to  give  you  the 
trouble,  grandfather,   but  I'm  afraid  we  must  go  !  " 

Simon  turned  the  pony's  head  without  a  word,  and 


THERE    AND    BACK. 


they    went    trotting   briskly    back    to    Mortgrange. 
Richard  explained  the  matter  as  it  seemed  to  him. 

"  I'm  glad  to  find  him  so  considerate  !  "  said  the 
old  man.  "It's  a  bad  cheese  that  don't  improve 
with  age  !     Only  men  ain't  cheeses  ! — If  I'd  brought 

up  my  girls  better, "  he  went  on  reflectively,   but 

Richard  interrupted  him. 

"You  ain't  going  to  hit  my  mother,  grandfather  !  " 
said  Richard. 

"No,  no,  lad;  I  learned  my  manners  better  than 
that  !  Whatever  I  was  going  to  say,  I  was  think- 
ing of  my  own  faults  and  no  one  else's.  But  it's  not 
possible  we  should  be  wise  at  the  outset,  and  I  trust 
the  Maker  will  remember  it.  He'll  be  considerate, 
lad  ! — The  Bible  would  call  it  mera/u/,  but  I  don't 
care  for  parson-words  !  I  like  things  that  are  true  to 
sound  true,  just  as  any  common  honest  man  would 
say  them  !  " 

The  moment  he  saw  that  Richard  was  indeed  gone, 
the  baronet  swore  to  himself  that  the  fellow  was  his 
own  son.  He  was  his  mother  all  over  ! — anything 
but  ugly,  and  far  fitter  to  represent  the  family  than 
the  smooth-faced  ape  Lady  Ann  had  presented  him 
with  !  But  a  doubt  came  :  his  late  wife  had  a  sister 
somewhere,  and  a  son  of  hers  might  have  stolen  a 
likeness  to  his  lady-aunt  !  The  tradesman  fellow 
knew  of  the  connection,  and  pretended  to  himself 
not  to  think  much  of  it  ! 

"What  are  we  coming  to,  by  Jove  !  "  muttered  the 
baronet.  "The  pride  of  the  lower  classes  is  grow- 
ing portentous! — No,  the  fellow  is  none  of  mine," 
he  concluded  with  a  sigh. 

Alas  for  his  grip  on  Lady  Ann  !  The  pincers  had 
melted  in  his  grasp,  and  she  was  gone  !     It  was   a 


DUCK-FISTS. 


499 


pity  !  If  he  had  been  a  better  husband  to  poor  Ruby, 
he  would  have  taken  better  care  of  her  child,  ugly 
as  he  was,  and  would  have  had  him  now  to  plague 
Lady  Ann  !  But  stop  !  there  was  something  odd 
about  the  child — something  more  than  mere  ugliness 
— something  his  nurse  had  shown  him  in  that  very 
room  !  By  Jove  !  what  was  it?  It  had  something 
to  do  with  ducks,  or  geese,  or  swans,  or  pelicans  ! 
He  had  mentioned  the  thing  to  his  wife,  he  knew, 
and  she  was  sure  to  have  remembered  it !  But  he 
was  not  going  to  ask  her  !  Very  likely  she  had 
known  the  fellow  by  it,  and  therefore  sent  him  out  of 
the  house  !— Yes  !  Yes  !  by  Jove  !  that  was  it !  He 
had  webs  between  his  fingers  and  toes  ! — He  might 
have  got  rid  of  them,  no  doubt,  but  he  must  see  his 
hands  ! 

All  this  passed  swiftly  through  Sir  Wilton's  mind. 
He  rang  the  library  bell  furiously,  and  sent  a  groom 
after  the  bookbinder. 

They  drove  in  at  the  gate,  but  stopped  a  little  way 
from  the  house.  Richard  ran  to  the  great  door, 
found  it  open,  and  went  straight  to  the  library. 
There  sat  the  baronet  as  at  first. 

"I  bethought  me,"  said  Sir  Wilton  the  moment  he 
entered,  "that  I  had  given  you  a  check  on  the 
branch  at  Barset,  when  it  would  probably  suit  you 
better  to  have  one  on  headquarters  in  London  !  " 

"It  was  very  kind  of  you  to  think  of  it,  sir,"  an- 
swered Richard. 

"Kind  !  I  don't  know  about  that  !  I'm  not  often 
accused  of  that  weakness  !  "  returned  Sir  Wilton, 
rising  with  a  grin — in  which,  however,  there  was 
more  of  humor  than  ill  nature. 

He  went  to  the  table  in  the  window,  sat  down,  un- 


500  THERE    AND    BACK. 

locked  a  drawer,  took  out  a  check-book,  and  began 
to  write  a  check. 

"  What  did  you  say  was  your  name  ?  "  he  asked  ; 
"these  checks  are  all  made  to  order,  and  I  should 
prefer  your  drawing  the  money." 

Richard  gave  him  again  the  name  he  had  always 
been  known  by. 

"  Tuke  !  Whiit  a  beast  of  a  name  !  "  said  the  bar- 
onet.     "How  do  you  spell  it.?  " 

Richard's  face  flushed,  but  he  would  not  willingly 
show  anger  with  one  who  had  granted  the  prayer  of 
his  sorest  need.  He  spelled  the  name  to  him  as 
unconcernedly  as  he  could.  But  the  baronet  had 
a  keen  ear. 

"Oh,  you  needn't  be  crusty  !  "  he  said,  "I  meant 
no  harm.  One  has  fancies  about  names,  you  know  ! 
What  did  they  call  your  mother  before  she  was  mar- 
ried ?  " 

Richard  hesitated.  He  did  not  want  Sir  Wilton  to 
know  who  he  was.  He  felt  that,  the  relation  be- 
tween them  known  by  both,  he  must  behave  to  his 
father  in  a  way  he  would  not  like.  But  he  must, 
nevertheless,  speak  the  truth  !  Wherever  he  had  not 
spoken  the  truth,  he  had  repented,  and  been  ashamed, 
and  had  now;  come  to  see  that  to  tell  a  lie  was  to 
step  out  of  the  march  of  the  ages  led  by  the  great 
will. 

"Her  name,  sir,  was  Armour,"  he  said. 

"Hey!"  cried  the  baronet  with  a  start.  Yet  he 
had  all  but  expected  it. 

"Yes,  sir, — Jane  Armour." 

"Jane!  "  said  his  father  with  an  accent  of  scorn. 
" — Not  a  bit  of  it  \—/a?ie  /  "  he  repeated,  and  mut- 
tered to  himself — "  What  motive  could  there  be  for 


DUCK-FISTS.  501 


niisinforrmng  the  boy  as  to   the  Christian  name  of  his 
mother  ? " 

For,  the  moment  he  saw  the  youth  again,  the  spell 
was  upon  him  afresh,  and  he  felt  all  but  certain  he 
was  his  own. 

Richard  stood  perplexed.  Sir  Wilton  had  taken 
his  mother's  name  oddly  for  any  supposition.  He 
had  said  Mrs.  Manson  was  a  liar  :  might  not  her 
assertion  of  a  relation  between  them  be  as  groundless 
as  it  was  spiteful .?  He  had  at  once  acknowledged 
the  Mansons,  but  showed  no  recognition  of  himself 
on  hearing  his  mother's  name!  There  might  be 
nothing  in  Mrs.  Manson's  story ;  he  might  after  all 
be  the  son  of  John  as  well  as  of  Jane  Tuke  !  Only, 
alas,  then,  Alice  and  Arthur  would  not  be  his  sister 
and  brother  !  They  would  be  God's  children  all  the 
same,  though,  and  he  God's  child  !  they  would  still 
be  his  brother  and  sister,  to  love  and  to  keep  ! 

"Here,  put  your  name  on  the  back  there,"  said 
the  baronet,  having  blotted  the  check.  "  1  have 
made  it  payable  to  your  order,  and  without  your 
name  it  is  worth  nothing." 

"It  will  be  safer  to  indorse  it  at  the  bank,  sir," 
returned  Richard. 

"I  see  you  know  what  you're  about!"  grinned 
Sir  Wilton — saying  to  himself,  however^  "The  rascal 
will  be  too  many  for  me  ! — But,"  he  continued,  "I 
see,  too,  you  don't  know  how  to  sign  your  own  name  ! 
I  had  better  alter  it  to  hearer,  with  my  initials  !  Curse 
it  all !  your  paltry  check  has  given  me  more  trouble 
than  if  it  had  been  for  ten  thousand  !  Sit  down  there, 
will  you,  and  write  your  name  on  thatsheet  of  paper." 
Richard  knew  the  story  of  Talleyrand — how,  giv- 
ing his   autograph  to  a  lady,  he  wrote  it  at  the  top 


502 


THERE    AND    BACK. 


left-hand  corner  of  the  sheet,  so  that  she  «ould  write 
above  or  before  it  neither  an  order  for  money  nor  a 
promise  of  marriage  :  yielding  to  an  absurd  impulse, 
he  did  the  same.  The  baronet  burst  into  loud  laugh- 
ter, which,  however,  ceased  abruptly  :  he  had  not 
gained  his  en  "  ! 

"What  comical  duck-fists  you've  got !"  he  cried, 
risking  the  throw.  "I  once  knew  a  man  whose 
fingers  and  toes  too  were  tied  together  that  way  ! 
He  swam  like  a  duck  !  " 

"  My  feet  are  more  that  way  than  my  hands,"  re- 
plied Richard.  "  Only  some  of  my  fingers  have  got 
the  web  between  them.  My  mother  made  me  promise 
to  put  up  with  the  monstrosity  till  I  came  of  age. 
She  seems  to  think  some  luck  lay  in  it." 

"Your  mother  !  '  murmured  the  baronet,  and  kept 
eying  him.  "By  Jove,"  he  said  aloud,  "your 
mother !     Who  is  your  mother,?  " 

"As  I  told  you,  sir,  my  mother's  name  is  Jane 
Tuke  !  " 

"  Born  Armour?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  By  heaven  !  "  said  the  baronet  to  himself,  "  I  see 
it  all  now  !  That  terrible  nurse  was  one  of  the  family 
— and  carried  him  away  because  she  didn't  like  the 
look  of  my  lady  !  Don't  I  wish  I  had  had  half  her 
insight  !  Perhaps  she  was  cousin  to  Robina — per- 
haps her  own  sister  !  Simon,  the  villain,  will  know 
all  about  it !  " 

He  sat  silent  for  a  moment. 

"  Hm  ! — Now  tell  me,  you  young  rascal,"  he  said, 
"why  didn't  you  put  in  a  claim  for  yourself  instead 
of  those  confounded  Mansons?" 

"Why  should  I,  sir.?     I  didn't  want  anything.     I 


DUCK-FISTS.  503 


have  all  I  desire — except  a  little  more  strength  to  work, 
and  that  is  corning." 

The  baronet  kept  gazing  at  him  with  the  strangest 
look  on  his  wicked,  handsome  old  face. 

"  There  is  something  you  shou/d  have  asked  me 
for  !  "  he  said  at  length,  in  a  gentler  t'Mie. 

"What  is  that,  sir.?" 

"Your  rights.  You  have  a  claim  upon  me  before 
anyone  else  in  the  whole  world  ! — I  like  you,  too," 
he  went  on  in  yet  gentler  tone,  with  a  touch  of  mock- 
ery in  it.  Apparently  he  still  hesitated  to  commit 
himself.      "  I  must  do  something  for  you !  " 

His  son  could  contain  himself  no  longer. 

"I  would  ask  nothing,  I  would  take  nothing,"  he 
said,  as  calmly  as  he  could,  though  his  voice  trem- 
bled, and  his  heart  throbbed  with  the  beginnings  of 
love,  ' '  from  the  man  who  had  wronged  my  mother  !  " 

"What  do  you  mean,  rascal  .!*  "  the  baronet  burst 
out.  "  I  never  wronged  your  mother  ! — Who  said  I 
wronged  your  mother,  you  scoundrel  ?  I'll  take  my 
oath  she  never  did  !  Answer  me  directly  who  told 
you  so  ! " 

His  voice  had  risen  to  a  roar  of  anger. 

His  son  could  do  the  dead  no  wrong  by  speaking 
the  truth. 

"  Mrs.  Manson  told  me "  he  began,  but  was  not 

allowed  to  finish  the  sentence. 

"  Like  the  liar  she  always  was  !  "  cried  the  baronet 
— with  such  a  fierceness  in  his  growl  as  made  Richard 
call  to  mind  a  certain  bear  in  the  Zoological  Gardens. 
"Then  it  was  she  that  had  you  stolen  !  The  beast 
ought  to  have  died  on  the  gallows,  not  in  her  bed  ! 
Ah,  she  was  the  one  to  plot,  the  snake  !  In  this 
whole  curse  of  a  world,  she  was  the  meanest  devil  I 


504 


THERE    AND    BACK. 


ever  came  across,  and  I've  known  more  than  a  few  !  " 

"I  know  nothing  about  her,  sir,  except  as  the 
mother  of  Arthur,  my  schoolfellow.  She  seemed  to 
hate  me !  She  said  I  belonged  to  you,  and  had  no 
right  to  be  better  off  than  her  children  1  " 

"  How  did  she  know  you?  " 

"  I  can't  tell,  sir." 

"You  are  like  your  mother,  but  that  snake  never 
can  have  set  eyes  on  her ! — Give  me  that  check. 
Her  fry  sha'n't  have  a  farthing  !  Let  them  rot  alive 
with  their  dead  dam  !  " 

He  held  out  his  hand  :  the  second  check  lay  on 
the  table,  and  Richard  had  the  former  still  in  his  pos- 
session. He  did  not  move,  nor  did  Sir  Wilton  urge 
his  demand. 

"Did  I  not  tell  you?"  he  resumed.  "Did  I  not 
say  she  was  a  liar?  I  never  did  your  mother  a 
wrong— nor  you  neither,  though  I  did  swear  at  you 
a  bit,  you  were  so  infernally  ugly.  1  don't  blame 
you.  You  couldn't  help  it !  Lord,  what  a  display 
the  woman  made  of  your  fingers  and  toes,  as  if  the 
webs  were  something  to  be  proud  of,  and  atoned  for 
the  face  ! — Can  you  swim  ?  " 

"Fairly  well,  sir,"  answered  Richard,  carelessly. 

"Your  mother  swam  like  a— Naiad,  was  it— or 
Nereid  } — I  forget — confound  it !  " 

"  I  don't  know  the  difference  in  their  swimming." 

"Nor  any  other  difference,  I  dare  say  !  " 

"I  know  the  one  was  a  nymph  of  the  sea,  the 
other  of  a  river." 

"  Oh  !  you  know  Greek,  then  ?  " 

"I  wish  I  did,  sir;  I  was  not  long  enough  at 
school.      I  had  to  learn  a  trade  and  be  independent." 

"  By  Jove,  I  wish  I  knew  a  trade  and  was  inde- 


DUCK-FISTS,  505 

pendent  !  But  you  shall  learn  Greek,  my  boy  ! 
There  will  be  some  good  in  teaching  _yo«/  /  never 
learned  anything  ! — But  how  the  deuce  do  you  know 
about  Naiads  and  Nereids  and  all  that  bosh,  if  you 
don't  know  Greek  ?  " 

"  I  know  my  Keats,  sir.  I  had  to  plough  with  his 
heifer,  though — use  my  Lempriere,  I  mean  !  " 

"  Good  heavens  !  "  said  the  baronet,  who  knew  as 
little  of  Keats  as  any  Lap.  — "  1  wish  I  had  been 
content  to  take  you  with  all  your  ugliness,  and  bring 
you  up  myself,  instead  of  marrying  Lot's  widow  !  " 

Richard  fancied  he  preferred  the  bringing  up  he 
had,  but  he  said  nothing.  Lideed  he  could  make 
nothing  of  the  whole  business.  How  jvas  it  that,  if 
Sir  Wilton  had  done  his  mother  no  wrong,  his  mother 
was  the  wife  of  John  Tuke  .?     He  was  bewildered. 

"  You  wouldn't  like  to  learn  Greek,  then.?"  said 
his  father. 

"Yes,  sir  ;  indeed  I  should  !  " 

"Why  don't  you  say  so  then  ?  I  never  saw  such 
a  block  I  I  say  you  shall  learn  Greek  ! — Why  do  you 
stand  there  looking  like  a  dead  oyster.?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir!  May  I  have  the  other 
check } " 

''•  What  other  check  ?  " 

"The  check  there  for  my  brother  and  sister,  sir," 
answered  Richard,  pointing  to  it  where  the  baronet 
had  laid  it,  on  the  other  side  of  him. 

"  Brother  and  sister." 

"The  Mansons,  sir,"  persisted  Richard. 

"Oh,  give  them  the  check  and  be  hanged  to 
them  !  But  remember  they're  no  brother  and  sister 
of  yours,  and  must  never  be  alluded  to  as  such,  eras 
persons  you  have  any  knowledge  of.     When  you've 


506  THERE    AND    BACK. 

given  them  that," — he  pointed  to  the  check  which 
still  lay  beside  him — "  you  drop  their  acquaintance." 

"That  I  cannot  do,  sir." 

"There's  a  good  beginning  now!  But  I  might 
have  expected  it ! — You  tell  me  to  my  face  you  won't 
do  what  I  order  you  ?  " 

"I  can't,  sir;  it  wouldn't  be  right." 

"  Fiddlesticks  !— Wouldn't  be  right!  What's  that 
to  you.?  It's  my  business.  You've  got  to  do  what 
I  tell  you." 

"  I  must  go  by  my  conscience,  sir." 

"Oh,  hang  your  conscience!  Will  you  promise, 
or  will  you  not.?  You're  to  have  nothing  to  say  to 
those  young  persons." 

"  I  will  not  promise." 

"  Not  if  I  promise  to  look  after  them  ? " 

"No,  sir." 

His  father  was  silent  for  a  moment,  regarding  him 
— not  all  in  anger. 

"Well,  you're  a  good-plucked  one,  I  allow!  But 
you're  the  greatest  fool,  the  dullest  young  ass  out, 
notwithstanding.  You  won't  suit  me — though  you 
are  web-footed ! — Why,  hang  it,  boy  !  don't  you 
understand  yet  that  I'm  your  father.?  " 

"  Mrs.  Manson  told  me  so,  sir." 

"Oh,  rot  Mrs.  Manson  !  she  told  you  a  lie  !  She 
told  you  I  wronged  your  mother  !  I  tell  you  I  mar- 
ried her  !  What  a  blockhead  you  are  !  Look  there, 
with  your  miserable  tradesman's  eyes  :  all  those 
books  will  be  yours  one  day  ! — to  put  in  the  fire  if 
you  like,  or  mend  at  from  morning  to  night,  just  as 
you  choose  !  You  fool  !  Ain't  you  my  son,  heir  to 
Mortgrange,  and  whatever  I  may  choose  to  give  you 
besides  I  " 


DUCK-FISTS. 


507 


Richard's  heart  gave  a  bound  as  if  it  would  leap  to 
heaven.  It  was  not  the  land  ;  it  was  not  the  money  ; 
it  was  not  the  books  ;  it  was  not  even  Barbara  ;  it 
M'as  Arthur  and  Alice  that  made  it  bound.  But  the 
voice  of  his  father  went  on. 

"  You  know  now,  you  idiot,"  it  said,  "why  you 
can  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  that  cursed  litter 
of  Mansons  !  " 

Richard's  heart  rose  to  meet  the  heartlessness  of 
his  father. 

"They  are  my  brother  and  sister,  sir  !  '"  he  said. 

"And  what  does  it  matter  to  you  if  they  are! 
That's  my  business,  not  yours  !  You  had  nothing 
to  do  with  it !     You  didn't  make  the  Mansons  !  " 

"No,  sir;  but  God  made  us  all,  and  says  we're 
to  love  our  brethren." 

"Now  don't  you  come  the  pious  over  me!  It 
won't  pay  here  !  Mind  you,  nobody  heard  me 
acknowledge  you  !  By  the  mighty  heavens,  I  will 
deny  knowing  anything  about  you  !  You'll  have  to 
prove  to  the  court  of  chancery  that  you're  my  son, 
born  in  wedlock,  and  kidnapped  in  infancy :  by 
Jove,  you'll  find  it  stiff!  Who'll  advance  you  the 
money  to  carry  it  there — you  can't  do  it  without 
money  ?  Nobody  ;  the  property's  not  entailed,  and 
who  cares  whether  it  be  Sir  Richard  or  Sir  Arthur.? 
What's  the  title  without  the  property  !  But  don't 
imagine  I  should  mind  telling  a  lie  to  keep  the  two 
together.  I'm  not  a  nice  man  ;  I  don't  mind  lying  ! 
I'm  a  bad  man  ! — that  I  know  better  than  you  or 
any  one  else,  and  you'll  find  it  uncomfortable  to 
differ  and  deal  with  me  both  at  once  !  " 

"I  will  not  deny  my  own  flesh  and  blood,"  said 
Richard. 


5o8  THERE    AND    BACK. 


"Then  I  will  deny  mine,  and  you  may  go  rot 
with  them." 

"I  will  work  for  them  and  myself,"  said  Richard. 

Sir  Wilton  glared  at  him.  Richard  made  a  stride 
to  the  table.  The  baronet  caught  up  the  check. 
Richard  darted  forward  to  seize  it.  Was  his  truth  to 
his  friends  to  be  the  death  of  them.?  He  would 
have  the  money  !  It  was  his  !  He  had  told  him  to 
take  it ! 

What  might  have  followed  I  dare  not  think.  Rich- 
ard's hands  were  out  to  lay  hold  on  his  father, 
when  happily  he  remembered  that  he  had  not  given 
him  back  the  former  check,  and  Barset  was  quite 
within  reach  of  his  grandfather's  pony  !  He  turned 
and  made  for  the  door.  Sir  Wilton  read  his 
thought. 

"Give  me  that  check,"  he  cried,  and  hobbled  to 
the  bell. 

Richard  glanced  at  the  lock  of  the  door :  there 
was  no  key  in  it !  Besides,  there  were  two  more 
doors  to  the  room  !  He  darted  out :  there  was  the 
man,  far  off  down  the  passage,  coming  to  answer 
the  bell  !     He  hastened  to  meet  him. 

"Jacob,"  he  said,  "Sir  Wilton  rang  for  you  :  just 
run  down  with  me  to  the  gate,  and  give  the  woman 
there  a  message  for  me." 

He  hurried  to  the  door,  and  the  man,  nothing 
doubting,  followed  him. 

"Tell  her,"  said  Richard  as  they  went,  "if  she 
should  see  Mr.  Wingfold  pass,  to  ask  him  to  call  at 
old  Armour's  smithy.  She  does  not  seem  to 
remember  me  !     Good-day  !     I'm  in  a  hurry  !  " 

He  leaped  into  the  pony-cart. 

"  Barset !"  he  cried,  and  the  same  moment  they 


DUCK-FISTS. 


509 


were  off  at  speed,  for  Simon  saw  something  fresh 
was  up. 

"Drive  like  Jehu,"  panted  Richard.  "Let's  see 
what  the  blessed  pony  can  do  !  Every  instant  is 
precious." 

Never  asking  the  cause  of  his  haste,  old  Simon  did 
drive  like  Jehu,  and  never  had  the  pony  gone  with  a 
better  will  :  evidently  he  believed  speed  was  wanted, 
and  knew  he  had  it  to  give. 

No  hoofs  came  clamping  on  the  road  behind 
them.  They  reached  the  town  in  safety,  and 
Richard  cashed  his  check — the  more  easily  that 
Simon,  a  well-known  man  in  Barset,  was  seen  wait- 
ing for  him  in  his  trap  outside.  The  eager,  anxious 
look  of  Richard,  and  the  way  he  clutched  at  the 
notes,  might  otherwise  have  waked  suspicion.  As 
it   was,  it  only  waked  curiosity. 

When  the  man  whom  Richard  had  decoyed, 
appeared  at  length  before  his  master,  whose  repeated 
ringing  had  brought  the  butler  first ;  and  when  Sir 
Wilton,  after  much  swearing  on  his,  and  bewilder- 
ment on  the  man's  part,  made  out  the  trick  played 
on  him,  his  wrath  began  to  evaporate  in  amusement : 
he  was  outwitted  and  outmanoeuvred — but  by  his 
own  son  !  and  even  in  the  face  of  such  an  early  out- 
break of  hostilities,  he  could  not  help  being  proud 
of  him.  He  burst  into  a  half  cynical  laugh,  and 
dismissed  the  men — to  vain  speculation  on  the  mean- 
ing of  the  affair. 

Simon  would  have  had  Richard  send  the  bank- 
notes by  post,  and  stay  with  him  a  week  or  two  ;  but 
Richard  must  take  them  himself;  no  other  way 
seemed  safe.  Nor  could  he  possibly  rest  until  he 
had  seen  his  mother,  and  told  her  all.  He  said  noth- 
ing to  his  grandfather  of  his  recognition  by  Sir  Wil- 


5IO  THERE    AND    BACK. 


ton,  and  what  followed  :  he  feared  he  might  take  the 
thing  in  his  own  hands,  and  go  to  Sir  Wilton. 

Questioning  his  grandfather,  he  learned  that  Bar- 
bara was  at  home,  but  that  he  had  seen  her  only 
once.  She  had  one  day  appeared  suddenly  at  the 
smithy  door,  with  Miss  Brown  all  in  a  foam.  She 
asked  about  Richard,  wheeled  her  mare,  and  w- as  off 
homeward,  straight  as  an  arrow — for  he  went  to  the 
corner,  and  looked  after  her. 

They  were  near  a  station  at  Barset,  and  a  train  was 
almost  due,  Simon  drove  him  there  straight  from 
the  bank,  and  before  he  was  home,  Richard  was  half- 
way to  London. 

Short  as  was  his  visit,  he  had  got  from  it  not  merely 
all  he  had  hoped,  but  almost  all  he  needed.  His 
weakness  had  left  him  ;  he  had  twenty  pounds  for  his 
brother  and  sister  ;  and  his  mother  was  cleared, 
though  he  could  not  yet  tell  how  :  was  he  not  also 
a  little  step  nearer  to  Barbara.?  True,  he  was  dis- 
owned, but  he  had  lived  without  his  father  hitherto, 
and  could  very  well  go  on  to  live  without  such  a 
father  !  As  long  as  he  did  what  was  right,  the  right 
was  on  his  side !  As  long  as  he  gave  others  their 
rights,  he  could  waive  his  own  !  A  fellow  was  not 
bound,  he  said,  to  insist  on  his  rights — at  least  he 
had  not  met  with  any  he  was  bound  to  insist  upon. 
Borne  swiftly  back  to  London,  his  heart  seemed 
rushing  in  the  might  of  its  gladness  to  console  the 
heavy-laden  hearts  of  Alice  and  Arthur.  Twenty 
pounds  was  a  great  sum  to  carry  them  !  He  could 
indeed  himself  earn  such  a  sum  in  a  little  while,  but 
how  long  would  it  not  take  him  to  save  as  much  ! 
Here  it  was,  whole  and  free,  present  and  potent, 
ready  to  be  turned  at  once  into  food  and  warmth  and 
hope  ! 


CHAPTER  LI. 

BARONET    AND     BLACKSMITH. 

The  more  Sir  Wiltons  anger  subsided,  the  more 
his  heart  turned  to  Richard,  and  the  more  he  re- 
gretted that  he  had  begun  by  quarrelling  with  him. 
Sir  Wilton  loved  his  ease,  and  was  not  a  quarrelsome 
man.  He  could  dislike  intensely,  he  could  hate 
heartily,  but  he  seldom  quarrelled ;  and  if  he  could 
have  foreseen  how  his  son  would  take  the  demand 
he  made  upon  him,  he  would  not  at  the  outset  have 
risked  it.  He  liked  Richard's  looks  and  carriage. 
He  liked  also  his  spirit  and  determination,  though 
his  first  experience  of  them  he  could  have  wished 
different.  He  felt  also  that  very  little  would  make  of 
him  a  man  fit  to  show  to  the  world  and  be  proud  of 
as  his  son.  To  his  satisfaction  on  these  grounds  was 
added  besides  a  peculiar  pleasure  in  the  discovery  of 
him  which  he  could  ask  no  one  to  share — that  it  was 
to  him  as  a  lump  of  dynamite  under  his  wife's  lounge, 
of  which  no  one  knew  but  himself,  and  which  he 
could  at  any  instant  explode.  It  was  sweet  to  know 
what  he  could  do  !  to  be  aware,  and  alone  aware,  of 
the  fool's  paradise  in  which  my  lady  and  her  brood 
lived  !  And  already,  through  his  own  precipitation, 
his  precious  secret  was  in  peril ! 

The  fact  gave  him  not  a  little  uneasiness.  His 
thought  was,  at  the  ripest  moment  of  her  frosty  in- 
difference, to  make  her  palace  of  ice  fly  in  flinders 
about  her.  Then  the  delight  of  her  perturbation  ! 
And  he  had  opened  his  hand  and  let  his  bird  fly ! 


512 


THERE    AND    BACK. 


His  father  did  not  know  Richard's  prudence.  Like 
the  fool  every  man  of  the  world  is,  he  judged  from 
Richard's  greatness  of  heart,  and  his  refusal  to  for- 
sake his  friends,  that  he  was  a  careless,  happy-go- 
lucky  sort  of  fellow,  who  would  bluster  and  protest. 
As  to  the  march  he  had  stolen  upon  him  on  behalf 
of  the  Mansons,  he  nowise  resented  that.  When 
pressed  by  no  selfish  necessity,  he  did  not  care  much 
about  money  ;  and  his  son's  promptitude  greatly 
pleased  him. 

"The  fellow  shall  go  to  college,"  he  said  to  him- 
self; "and  I  won't  give  my  lady  even  a  hint  before 
I  have  him  the  finest  gentleman  and  the  best  scholar 
in  the  county  !  He  shall  be  both  !  I  will  teach  him 
billiards  myself!  By  Jove  !  it  is  more  of  a  pleasure 
than  at  my  years  I  had  a  right  to  expect !  To  think 
of  an  old  sinner  like  me  being  blessed  with  such  a 
victory  over  his  worst  enemy  !  It  is  more  than  I 
could  deserve  if  I  lived  to  the  age  of  Mephistopheles 
— or  Methuselah — or  whatever  his  name  was  !  I 
shouldn't  like  to  live  so  long— there's  so  little  worth 
remembering  !  I  wish  forgetting  things  wiped  them 
out  !  There  are  things  I  hardly  know  whether  I  did 
or  only  wanted  to  do  ! — Hang  it,  it  may  be  all  over 
Barset  by  this  time,  that  the  heir  to  Sir  Wilton's  prop- 
erty has  turned  up  !  " 

He  rang  the  bell,  and  ordered  his  carriage. 

"I  must  see  the  old  fellow,  the  rascal's  grand- 
father!" he  kept  on  to  himself.  "I  haven't  ex- 
changed a  word  with  him  for  years  !  And  now  I 
think  of  it,  I  take  poor  Robina's  father  for  a  very 
decent  sort  of  fellow  !  If  he  had  but  once  hinted 
what  he  was,  every  soul  in  the  parish  would  have 
known   it  !     I   must  find    out    whether   he's    in    my 


BARONET    AND    BLACKSMITH.  513 

secret !     I  can't  prove  it  yet,  but  perhaps  he  can  !  " 

Simon  Armour  was  not  astonished  to  see  tlie 
Lestrange  carriage  stop  at  the  smithy  :  he  thought 
Sir  Wilton  had  come  about  the  check.  He  went 
out,  and  stood  in  hairy  arms  and  leather  apron  at 
the  carriage  door. 

"Well,  Armour,  how  are  you?"  said  the  baronet. 

"Well  and  hearty,  sir,  I  thank  you,"  answered 
Simon. 

"I  want  a  word  with  you,"  said  Sir  Wilton. 

"  Shall  I  tell  the  coachman  to  drive  round  to  the 
cottage,  sir } " 

"No  ;  I'll  get  out  and  walk  there  with  you." 

Simon  opened  the  carriage-door,  and  the  baronet 
got  out. 

"That  grandson  of  yours "  he  began,  the  mo- 
ment they  were  in  Simon's  little  parlor. 

Simon  started.  "The  old  wretch  knows!"  he 
said  to  himself. 

" — has  been  too  much  for  me !  "  continued  Sir 
Wilton.  "He  got  a  check  out  of  me  whether  I 
would  or  not ! " 

"And  got  the  money  for  it,  sir!  "'  answered  the 
smith.  "  He  seemed  to  think  the  money  better  than 
the  check  !  " 

"  I  don't  blame  him,  by  Jove!  There's  decision 
in  the  fellow  ! — They  say  his  father's  a  bookbinder 
in  London  I  " 

"Yes,  sir." 

' '  You  know  better  !  I  don't  want  humbug.  Armour  ! 
I'm  not  fond  of  it  !  " 

"You  told  me  people  said  his  father  was  a  book- 
binder, and  I  said  '  Yes,  sir  ' !  " 

"  You  know  as  well  as  I  do  it's  all  a  lie  !  The  boy 
33 


514  THERE    AND    BACK. 

is  mine.  He  belongs  neither  to  bookbinder  nor  blacks 
smith  !  " 

"  You'll  allow  me  a  small  share  in  him,  I  hope  ! 
I've  done  more  for  him  than  you,  sir. " 

"That's  not  my  fault !  " 

"Perhaps  not;  but  I've  done  more  for  him  than 
you  ever  will,  sir  !  " 

"How  do  you  make  that  out?" 

"  I've  made  him  as  good  a  shoesmith  as  ever  drove 
nail !  I  don't  say  he's  up  to  his  grandfather  at  the 
anvil  yet,  but " 

"An  accomplishment  no  doubt,  but  not  exactly 
necessary  to  a  gentleman  !  " 

"  It's  better  than  dicing  or  card-playing  !  "  said  the 
blacksmith. 

"  You're  right  there  !  I  hope  he  has  learned  neither. 
I  want  to  teach  him  those  things  myself. — He's  not 
an  ill-looking  fellow  !  " 

"  There's  not  a  better  lad  in  England,  sir  !  If  you 
had  brought  him  up  as  he  is,  you  might  ha'  been 
proud  o'  your  work  !  " 

"ZTe  seems  proud  of  somebody's  work! — prouder 
of  himself  than  his  prospects,  by  Jove  !  "  said  Sir 
Wilton,  feeling  his  way.  "You  should  have  taught 
him  not  to  quarrel  with  his  bread  and  butter  !  " 

' '  I  never  saw  any  call  to  teach  him  that.  He  never 
quarrelled  with  anything  at  my  table,  sir.  A  man 
who  has  earned  his  own  bread  and  butter  ever  since 
he  left  school,  is  not  likely  to  quarrel  with  it." 

"  You  don't  say  he  has  done  so  } " 

"I  do — and  can  prove  it! — Did  you  tell  him,  sir, 
you  were  his  father  ? " 

"  Of  course  I  did  ! — and  before  I  said  another  word, 


BARONET    AND    BLACKSMITH.  515 

there  we  were  quarrelling — ^just  as  it  was  with  me  and 
my  father !  " 

"  He  never  told  me  !  "  said  Simon,  half  to  himself, 
and  ready  to  feel  hurt. 

"  He  didn't  tell  you?" 

"No,  sir." 

"  Where  is  he  ?  " 

"Gone  to  London  with  your  bounty." 

"Now,  Simon  Armour,"  began  the  baronet  with 
some  truculence. 

"  Now,  Sir  Wilton  Lestrange  !  "  interrupted  Simon. 
"What's  the  matter.?" 

"  Please  to  remember  you  are  in  my  house !  " 

"  Tut,  tut  !  All  I  want  to  say  is  that  you  will  spoil 
everything  if  you  encourage  the  rascal  to  keep  low 
company  !  " 

"  You  mean  ?  " 

"  Those  Mansons." 

"Are  your  children  low  company,  sir?" 

"Yes;  I  am  sorry,  but  I  must  admit  it.  Their 
mother  was  low  company." 

"She  was  in  it  at  least,  when  she  was  in  yours  !  " 
had  all  but  escaped  Simon's  lips,  but  he  caught  the 
bird  by  the  tail. — "  The  children  are  not  the  mother  !  " 
he  said.  "  I  know  the  girl,  and  she  is  anything  but 
low  company.  She  lay  ill  in  my  house  here  for  six 
weeks  or  more.  Ask  Miss  Wylder. — If  you  want  to 
be  on  good  terms  with  your  son,  don't  say  a  word, 
sir,  against  your  daughter  or  her  brother." 

"  I  like  that !  On  good  terms  with  my  son  !  Ha, 
ha!" 

"Remember,  sir,  he  is  independent  of  his  father." 

"  Independent  !     A  beggarly  bookbinder  !  " 

"Excuse  me,  sir,  but  an  honest  trade  is  the  only 


5l6  THERE    AND    BACK. 


independence  !  You  are  dependent  on  your  money 
and  your  land.  Where  would  you  be  without  them  ? 
And  you  made  neither  !  They're  yours  only  in  a 
way  !  We,  my  grandson  and  I,  have  means  of  our 
own,"  said  the  blacksmith,  and  held  out  his  two 
brawny  hands.  " — The  thing  that  is  beggarly,"  he 
resumed,  "is  to  take  all  and  give  nothing.  If  your 
ancestors  got  the  land  by  any  good  they  did,  you  did 
not  get  it  by  any  good  you  did  ;  and  having  got  it, 
what  have  you  done  in  return  ?  " 

"  By  Jove  !  I  didn't  know  you  were  such  a  radi- 
cal !  "  returned  the  baronet,  laughing. 

"  It  is  such  as  you,  sir,  that  make  what  you  call 
radicals.  If  the  landlords  had  used  what  was  given 
them  to  good  ends,  there  would  be  no  radicals — or 
not  many — in  the  country  !  The  landlords  that  look 
to  their  land  and  those  that  are  on  it,  earn  their  bread 
as  hardly  as  the  man  that  ploughs  it.  But  when  you 
call  it  yours,  and  do  nothing  for  it,  I  am  radical 
enough  to  think  no  wrong  would  be  done  if  you  were 
deprived  of  it !  " 

"What!  are  you  taking  to  the  highway  at  your 
age .''  " 

"  No,  sir ;  I  have  a  trade  I  like  better,  and  have  no 
call  to  lighten  you  of  anything,  however  ill  you  may 
use  it.  But  there  are  those  that  think  they  have  a 
right  afid  a  call  to  take  the  land  from  landlords  like 
you,  and  I  would  no  more  leave  my  work  to  prevent 
them  than  I  would  to  help  them." 

"Well,  well!  I  didn't  come  to  talk  politics:  I 
came  to  ask  a  favor  of  you." 

"  What  I  can  do  for  you,  sir,  I  shall  be  glad  to  do." 

"  It  is  merely  this— that  you  will,  for  tlie  present, 
say  nothing  about  the  heir  having  turned  up." 


BARONET    AND    BLACKSMITH.  517 

"I  could  have  laid  my  hand  on  him  any  moment 
this  twenty  years  ;  and  I  can  tell  you  where  to  find 
the  parish  book  with  his  baptism  in  it  !  That  I've 
not  spoken  proves  I  can  hold  my  tongue  ;  but  I  will 
give  no  pledge  ;  when  the  time  comes  I  will  speak." 

"Are  you  aware  I  could  have  you  severely  pun- 
ished for  concealing  the  thing  ?  " 

"  Fire  away.  I'll  take  my  chance.  But  I  would 
advise  you  not  to  allow  the  thing  come  into  court. 
Words  might  be  spoken  that  would  hurt  !  I  k?iow 
nothing  myself,  but  there  is  one  that  could  and  would 
speak.     Better  let  sleeping  dogs  lie." 

"Oh,  hang  it !  I  don't  want  to  wake  'em  !  Most 
old  stories  are  best  forgotten.  But  what  do  you  think  : 
will  the  boy — What's  his  name  ?  " 

"My  father's,  sir, — Richard." 

"Will  Richard,  then,  as  you  have  taken  upon  you 
to  call  him, " 

"  His  mother  gave  him  the  name." 

"What  I  want  to  know  is,  whether  you  think  he 
will  go  and  spread  the  thing,  or  leave  it  to  me  to 
publish  when  I  please." 

"Did  you  tell  him  to  hold  his  tongue  ?  " 

"  No  ;  he  didn't  give  me  time. " 

"That's  a  pity!  He  would  have  done  whatever 
you  asked  him." 

"Oh  !  would  he  ?  " 

"  He  would  —so  long  as  it  was  a  right  thing." 

"  And  who  was  to  judge  of  that.?  " 

"Why,  the  man  who  had  to  do  it  or  leave  it,  of 
course  ! — But  if  he  didn't  tell  me,  he's  not  likely  to  go 
blazing  it  abroad  !  " 

"You  said  he  would  go  to  his  mother  first:  his 
mother  is  nowhere." 


5  I  8  THERE    AND    BACK. 


"  So  say  some,  so  say  not  I  !  " 

"Nevermind  that.     Who  is  it  he  calls  his  mother.?  " 

"The  woman  that  brought  him  up — and  a  good 
mother  she's  been  to  him  !  " 

"  But  who  is  she.?  You  haven't  told  me  who  she 
is  !  "  cried  the  baronet,  beginning  to  grow  impatient, 
and  impatience  and  anger  were  never  far  apart  with 
him. 

"  No,  sir,  I  haven't  told  you  ;  and  I  don't  mean  to 
tell  you  till  I  see  fit." 

"And  when,  pray,  will  that  be  ?" 

"When  I  have  your  promise  in  writing  that  you 
will  give  herno  trouble  about  what  is  past  and  gone." 

"I  will  give  you  that  promise — always  provided 
she  can  prove  that  what  was  past  and  gone  is  come 
again.     I  shall  insist  upon  that  !  " 

"  Most  properly,  sir  !  You  shall  not  have  to  wait 
for  it. — And  now,  if  you  will  take  me  to  the  post- 
office,  I  will  send  a  telegram  to  Richard,  warning 
him  to  hold  his  tongue." 

"Good!     Come." 

They  walked  to  the  carriage,  and  Simon,  displac- 
ing the  footman,  got  up  beside  the  coachman.  He 
was  careful,  however,  to  be  set  down  before  they 
got  within  sight  of  the  post-office. 

The  message  he  sent  was  : 

"I  know  all,  and  will  write.  Say  nothing  but  to 
your  mother." 


CHAPTER  LII. 

UNCLE-FATHER  AND  AUNT-MOTHER. 

When  Richard  reached  London,  he  went  straight 
to  Clerkenwell.  There  he  found  Arthur,  in  bed  and 
unattended,  but  covered  up  warm.  Except  one  num- 
ber of  The  Family  Herald,  he  had  nothing  to  read. 
The  room  was  tidy,  but  very  dreary.  Richard  asked 
him  why  he  did  not  move  into  the  front  room. 
Arthur  did  not  explain,  but  Richard  understood  that 
the  mother  had  left  so  many  phantasms  behind  her 
that  he  preferred  his  own  dark  chamber.  When 
Richard  told  him  what  he  had  done  and  the  success 
he  had  had,  he  thanked  him  with  such  a  shining  face 
that  Richard  saw  in  it  the  birth  of  saving  hope. 

"And  now,  Arthur,"  he  said,  "you  must  get  better 
as  fast  as  you  can  ;  and  the  first  minute  you  are  able 
to  be  moved,  we'll  ship  you  off  to  my  grandfather's, 
where  Alice  was." 

"  Away  from  Alice.?  " 

"Yes;  but  you  must  remember  there  will  be  so 
much  more  for  her  to  eat,  and  so  much  more  money 
to  get  things  comfortable  with  by  the  time  you  come 
back.  Besides,  you  will  grow  well  faster,  and  then 
perhaps  we  shall  find  some  fitter  work  for  you  than 
that  hideous  clerking  !  " 

The  flush  of  joy  on  Arthur's  cheek  was  a  divine 
reward  to  Richard  for  what  he  had  done  and  suffered 
and  sacrificed  for  the  sake  of  his  brother.     He  made 


520  THERE    AND    BACK. 


a  fire,  and  having  set  on  the  kettle,  went  to  buy  some 
things,  that  he  might  have  a  nice  supper  ready  for 
Alice  when  she  came  home.  Next  he  found  two 
clean  towels,  and  covered  the  little  table,  forgetthig 
all  his  troubles  in  the  gladness  of  ministration,  and 
the  new  life  that  hope  gives.  If  only  we  believed 
in  God,  how  we  should  hope  !  And  what  would  not 
hope  do  to  reveal  the  new  heavens  and  the  new  earth 
— that  is,  to  show  us  the  real,  true  and  gracious 
aspect  of  those  heavens  and  that  earth  in  which  we 
now  live  so  sadly,  and  are  not  at  home,  because  we 
do  not  see  them  as  they  are,  do  not  recognize  in  them 
the  beginning  of  the  inheritance  we  long  for  ! 

When  Alice  came  in,  she  heard  Arthur  cough,  and 
hurried  up  ;  but  before  she  reached  the  top  of  the 
second  stair,  she  heard  a  laugh  which,  though  feeble, 
was  of  such  merry  enjoyment,  that  it  filled  her  with 
wonder  and  gladness.  Had  the  fairy  godmother 
appeared  at  last  ?  What  could  have  come  to  make 
Arthur  laugh  like  that  .J*  She  opened  the  door,  and 
all  was  explained  :  there  sat  the  one  joy  of  their  life, 
their  brother  Richard,  looking  much  like  himself 
again  !  What  a  healer,  what  a  strength-giver  is  joy  ! 
Will  not  holy  joy  at  last  drive  out  every  disease  in 
the  world?  Will  it  not  be  the  elixir  of  life,  and  drive 
out  death  ?  She  sprang  upon  him,  and  burst  out 
weeping. 

"Come  and  have  supper,"  he  said.  "I've  been 
out  to  buy  it,  and  haven't  much  time  to  help  you  eat 
it.     My  father  and  mother  don't  know  where  I  am." 

Then  he  told  her  what  he  had  been  about. 

It  was  with  a  happy  heart  he  made  his  way  home, 
for  he  left  happy  hearts  behind  him. 

He  wondered  that  his  mother  was  not  surprised  to 


UNXLE-FATHER    AND    AUNT-MOTHER.  52  I 

see  him — wondered  too  why  she  looked  so  troubled. 

"  What  does  this  telegram  mean  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  don't  know,  mother,"  he  replied.  "  Won't  you 
give  me  a  kiss  first .''  " 

She  threw  her  arms  about  him. 

"You  won't  give  up  saying  mother  to  me,  will 
you.'  "  she  pleaded,  fighting  with  her  emotion. 

"It  will  be  a  bad  day  for  me  when  I  do!"  he 
answered.  "  My  mother  you  are  and  shall  be.  But 
I  don't  understand  it !  " 

The  >elegram  let  him  know  that  Sir  Wilton  and  his 
gr^Vidfather  had  been  in  communication,  and  gave 
him  hope  that  things  might  be  accommodated  be- 
tween him  and  his  father. 

"  You've  got  your  real  father  now,  Richard  !  "  said 
his  mother. 

But  she  saw  an  expression  on  his  face  that  made 
her  add, — 

"  You  must  respect  your  father,  Richard — now  you 
know  him  for  your  father." 

"  I  can't  respect  him,  mother.  He  is  not  a  good 
man.      I  can  only  love  him." 

"You  have  no  right  to  find  fault  with  him.  He 
was  not  to  blame  that  I  carried  you  away  when  your 
mother  died  !     1  was  terrified  at  your  stepmother  !  " 

"  I  don't  wonder  at  that,  mother  ! — Ah,  now  I  begin 
to  understand  it  all ! — But,  mother,  if  my  father  had 
been  a  good  man,  I  don't  believe  you  would  have 
carried  me  away  from  him  !  " 

"Very  likely  not,  my  boy — though  he  did  make  me 
that  angry  by  calling  you  ugly  !  And  I  don't  believe 
I  should  have  taken  you  at  all,  if  that  woman  hadn't 
sent  me  away  for  no  reason  but  to  have  a  nurse  of 
her  choosing.     How  could  I  leave  my  sister's  child 


52  2  THERE    AND    BACK. 


in  the  power  of  such  a  woman  !  Day  and  night, 
Richard,  was  I  haunted  with  the  sight  of  her  cold 
face  hanging  over  you.  I  was  certain  the  devil 
might  have  his  way  with  her  when  he  chose  :  there 
was  no  love  in  her  to  prevent  him.  In  my  dreams 
I  saw  her  giving  you  poison,  or  with  a  penknife  in 
her  hand,  and  her  eyes  shining  like  ice.  I  could  not 
bear  it.  I  should  have  gone  mad  to  leave  you  there. 
I  knew  I  was  committing  a  crime  in  the  eyes  of  the 
law  ;  but  I  felt  a  stronger  law  compelling  me  ;  and  I 
said  to  myself,  '  I  will  be  hanged  for  my  child, 
rather  than  my  child  should  be  murdered  !  I  will 
not  leave  him  with  that  woman  ! '  So  I  took  you, 
Richard  !  " 

"Thank  you,  mother,  a  thousand  times!  I  am 
sure  it  was  right,  and  every  way  best  for  me  !  Oh, 
how  much  I  owe  you  and  my — uncle  !  I  must  call 
you  mother  still,  but  I'm  afraid  I  shall  have  to  call 
my  father  ?^wc/e.^" 

"'  It  won't  hurt  him,  Richard  ;  he  has  been  a  good 
uncle  to  you,  but  I  don't  think  he  would  have  taught 
you  the  things  he  did,  if  you  had  been  his  very  own 
child  !  " 

"  He  has  done  me  no  harm,  mother, — nothing  but 
good,"  said  Richard.  " — And  so  you  are  my  own 
mother's  sister.?" 

"  Yes,  and  a  good  mother  she  would  have  been  to 
you  !  You  must  not  think  of  her  as  a  grim  old  woman 
like  me !  She  was  but  six-and-twenty  when  you 
were  born  and  she  died  !  She  was  the  most  beauti- 
ful woman  /  ever  saw,  Richard  !— Never  another 
woman's  hand  has  touched  your  body  but  hers  and 
mine,  Richard  !  " 

He  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it.     Jane  Tuke  had 


UNCLE-FATHER    AND    AUNT-MOTHER.  523 

never  had  her  hand  kissed  before,  and  would  have 
drawn  it  away.  The  lady  within  was  ashamed  of 
her  rough  gloves,  not  knowing  they  had  won  her  her 
ladyhood.  In  the  real  world,  there  are  no  ladies 
but  true  women.  Also  they  only  are  beautiful.  All 
there  show  what  they  are,  and  the  others  are  all  more 
or  less  deformed.  Oh,  what  lovely  ladies  will  walk 
into  the  next  world  out  of  the  rough  cocoon  of  their 
hard-wrought  bodies — not  because  they  have  been 
working  women,  but  because  they  have  been  true 
women.  Among  working  women  as  among  count- 
esses, there  are  last  that  shall  be  first,  and  first  that 
shall  be  last.  Wha/  kind  of  woman  will  be  the  ques- 
tion. Alas  for  those,  whether  high  or  low  or  in  the 
middle,  whose  business  in  life  has  been  to  be  ladies  ! 
What  poor,  mean,  draggled,  unangelic  things  will 
come  crawling  out  of  the  husk  they  are  leaving  behind 
them,  which  yet,  perhaps,  will  show  a  glimmer,  in 
the  whiteness  of  death,  of  what  they  were  meant  to 
be,  if  only  they  had  lived,  had  bee/i,  had  put  forth 
the  power  that  was  in  them  as  their  birthright  !  Not 
a  few  I  know  will  crawl  out  such,  except  they  awake 
from  the  dead  and  cry  for  life.  Perhaps  one  and 
another  in  the  next  world  will  say  to  me,  "You 
meant  me  !  I  know  now  why  you  were  always  say- 
ing such  things  !  "  For  I  suspect  the  next  world  will 
more  plainly  be  a  going  on  with  this  than  most  peo- 
ple think — only  it  will  be  much  better  for  some,  and 
much  worse  for  others,  as  the  Lord  has  taught  us  in 
the  parable  of  the  rich  man  and  the  beggar. 

"No,  Richard,"  resumed  his  aunt,  "your  father 
was  not  a  good  man,  but  he  may  be  better  now,  and 
perhaps  you  will  help  him  to  be  better  still." 

"It's  doubtful  if  ever  I  have  the  chance,"  returned 


524  THERE    AND    BACK. 


Richard.        "We've    had  a    pretty    fair    quarrel  al- 
ready !  " 

"He  can't  take  your  birthright  from  you!"  she 
cried. 

"  That  may  be — but  what  is  my  birthright.?  He 
told  me  the  land  was  not  entailed  ;  he  can  leave  it 
to  anybody  he  likes.  But  I'm  not  going  to  do  what 
he  would  have  me  do — that  is,  if  it  be  wrong,"  added 
Richard,  not  willing  to  start  the  question  about  the 
Mansons.  "To  be  a  sneak  would  be  a  fine  begin- 
ning !  If  that's  to  be  a  gentleman,  I  will  be  no  gentle- 
man !  " 

"  Right  you  are,  my  son  !  "  said  Tuke,  who  that 
moment  came  in. 

"Oh,  uncle  !  "  cried  Richard,  starting  to  his  feet. 

"  Uncle! — Ho  1  ho  !     What's  up  now  }  " 

"Nothing's  up,  but  all's  out,  father!"  answered 
Richard,  putting  his  hand  in  that  of  the  bookbinder. 
"You  knew,  and  now  I  know!  How  shall  I  ever 
thank  you  for  what  you  have  done  for  me,  and  been 
to  me,  and  given  me  !  " 

"  Precious  little  anyway,  my  boy  !  I  wish  it  had 
been  a  great  deal  more." 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  what  you  have  done  for  me  .' — 
You  made  a  man  of  me  first  of  all,  by  giving  me  a 
trade,  and  making  me  independent.  Then  again,  by 
that  trade  you  taught  me  to  love  the  very  shape  of  a 
book.     Baronet  or  no  baronet " 

"What  do  you  mean  .?  " 

"My  father  threatens  to  disown  me." 

"  He  can't  take  your  rank  from  you.  We'll  have 
you  Sir  Richard  anyhow  !— An'  I'd  let  'em  see  that  a 
true  baronet " 

"  — is  just  a  true  man,  uncle  !  "  interposed  Richard  ; 


UNCLE-FATHER    AND    AUNT-MOTHER.  525 

"and  that  you've  helped  to  make  me.  It's  being 
independent  and  helping  others,  not  being  a  baronet, 
that  will  make  a  gentleman  of  me  !  That's  how  it 
goes  in  the  true  world  anyhow  !  " 

"  The  true  world  !  Where's  that .?  "  rejoined  Tuke, 
with  what  would  have  been  a  sneer  had  there  been 
ill-nature  in  it. 

"  And  that  reminds  me  of  another  precious  thing 
you've  given  me,"  Richard  went  on  :  "  you've  taught 
me  to  think  for  myself!  " 

"Think  for  yourself  indeed,  and  talk  of  any  world 
but  the  world  we've  got !  " 

"  If  you  hadn't  taught  me,"  returned  Richard,  "to 
think  for  myself,  I  should  have  thought  just  as  you 
did.  But  I've  been  thinking  for  myself  a  great  deal, 
and  I  say  now,  that,  if  there  be  no  more  of  it  after  we 
die,  then  the  whole  thing  is  such  a  sell  as  even  the 
dumb,  deaf,  blind,  heartless,  headless  God  you  seem 
to  believe  in  could  not  have  been  guilty  of  !  " 

"  Ho  !  ho  ! — that's  the  good  my  teaching  has  done 
you  ?  Well,  we'll  have  it  out  by  and  by  1  In  the 
meantime,  tell  us  how  it  all  came  about — how  you 
came  to  know,  I  mean.  You're  a  good  sort,  what- 
ever you  believe  or  don't  believe,  and  I  wish  you 
were  ours  in  reality  !  " 

"It's  just  in  reality  that  I  am  yours!"  protested 
Richard  ;  but  his  mother  broke  in  : 

"Would  you  dare,  John,"  she  cried,  "  to  wish  him 
ours  to  his  loss  ?  " 

"No,  no,  Jane!  You  know  me!  It  was  but  a 
touch  of  what  you  call  the  old  Adam — and  I  the  old 
John  !  We've  got  to  take  care  of  each  other  !  We're 
all  agreed  about  that  !  " 


526  THERE    AND    BACK. 

"  And  you  do  it,  father,  and  that's  before  any  agree- 
ing- about  it !  " 

"Come  and  let's  have  our  tea  !  "  said  the  mother; 
"and  Richard  shall  tell  us  how  it  worked  round  that 
the  old  gentleman  knew  him.  I  remember  him  young 
enough  to  be  no  bad  match  for  your  mother,  and 
that's  enough  to  say  for  any  man — as  to  looks,  I 
mean  only.  There  wasn't  a  more  beautiful  woman 
than  my  sister  Robina  in  all  England — and  I'm  bold 
to  say  it — not  that  it  wants  much  boldness  to  say  the 
truth  !  " 

"  It  wants  nearly  as  much  at  this  moment  as  I  have 
got,"  returned  Richard  ;  for  his  narrative  required,  as 
an  essential  part  of  it,  that  he  should  tell  what  had 
made  him  go  to  his  father. 

He  had  but  begun  when  a  black  cloud  rose  on  his 
mother's  face,  and  she  almost  started  from  her 
seat. 

"  I  told  you  Richard,  you  were  to  have  nothing  to 
do  with  those  creatures  !  "  she  cried. 

"  Mother,"  answered  Richard,  "  was  it  God  or  the 
devil  told  me  I  must  be  neighbor  to  my  own  brother 
and  sister  ?  Hasn't  my  father  done  them  wrong 
enough  that  you  should  side  with  him  and  want  me  to 
carry  on  the  wrong.?  I  heard  the  same  voice  that 
made  you  run  away  with  me.  You  were  ready  to 
be  hanged  for  me  ;  I  was  ready  to  lose  my  father  for 
them.  He  too  said  I  must  have  done  with  them,  and 
I  told  him  I  wouldn't.  That  was  why  I  got  you  to 
put  me  on  journeyman's  wages,  uncle.  They  were 
starving,  and  I  had  nothing  to  give  them.  What  am 
I  in  the  world  for,  if  not  to  set  right,  so  far  as  I  may, 
what  my  father  has  set  wrong.?  You  see  I  have 
learned  sometliing  of  you,  uncle  !  " 


UNCLE-FATHER    AND    AUNT-MOTHER.  527 

"  I  don't  see  what,"  returned  Tuke. 

He  had  been  listening  with  a  grave  face,  for  he 
had  his  pride,  and  did  not  relish  his  nephew's  being 
hand  and  glove  with  his  base-born  brother  and 
sister. 

"Don't  you,  father?  Where's  your  socialism?  I'm 
only  trying  to  carry  it  out." 

"Out  and  away,  my  boy,  as  Samson  did  the  gates 
in  my  mother's  old  Bible  ! "  answered  John. 

"  If  a  man's  socialism  don't  apply  to  his  own  flesh 
and  blood,"  resumed  Richard,  "  where  on  earth  is  it 
to  begin  ?  Must  you  hate  your  own  flesh,  and  go  to 
Russia  or  China  for  somebody  to  be  fair  to  ?  Ain't 
your  own  got  as  good  a  right  to  fair  play  as  any,  and 
ain't  they  the  readiest  to  begin  with  ?  Is  it  selfish  to 
help  your  own  ?  It  ain't  the  way  you've  done  by  me, 
uncle  !  " 

"You  mustn't  forget,"  said  John,  "that  a  grave 
wrong  is  done  the  nation  when  marriage  is  treated 
with  disrespect." 

"  It  was  my  father  did  that!  Was  it  Alice  and 
Arthur  that  broke  the  marriage-law  by  being  born  out 
of  wedlock  ?  " 

"If  you  treat  them  like  other  people,  you  slight 
that  law." 

"If  Sir  Wilton  Lestrange  were  to  come  into 
the  room  this  minute,  you  would  offer  him  a  chair  ; 
his  children  you  would  order  out  of  the  house  !  " 

"  I  wouldn't  do  that,"  said  Mrs.  Tuke. 

"Mother,  you  turned  them  out  of  the  house! — I 
beg  your  pardon,  mother,  but  you  know  it  was  the 
same  thing  !  You  visited  the  sins  of  the  father  on  the 
children!  " 


528  THERE    AND    BACK. 

' '  Bravo  !  "  cried  his  uncle  ;  "I  thought  you  couldn't 
mean  the  rot !  " 

"What  rot,  father?" 

"  That  rot  about  God  you  flung  at  me  first  thing." 

"  Father,  it  would  take  the  life  out  of  me  to  believe 
there  w^as  no  God  ;  but  the  God  I  hope  in  is  a  differ- 
ent person  from  the  God  my  mother's  clergy  have 
taught  her  to  believe  in.  Father,  do  you  know  Jesus 
Christ.?" 

"I  know  the  person  you  mean,  my  boy." 

"I  know  w\\Sii  kind  of  person  he  is,  and  he  said 
God  was  just  like  him,  and  in  the  God  like  him,  if  I 
can  find  him,  I  will  believe  with  all  my  heart  and 
soul — and  so  would  you,  father,  if  you  knew  him. 
You  will  say,  perhaps,  he  ain't  nowhere  io  know  ! 
but  you  haven't  a  right  to  say  that  until  you've  been 
everywhere  to  look  ;  for  such  a  God  is  no  absurdity  ; 
it's  nothing  ridiculous  to  look  for  him.  I  beg  your 
pardon,  both  of  you,  but  Fm  bound  to  speak.  Jesus 
Christ  said  we  must  leave  father  andmother  for  him, 
because  he  is  true  ;  and  I  must  speak  for  him  what  is 
true,  even  if  my  own  father  and  mother  should  think 
me  rude." 

He  had  spoken  eagerly  ;  and  man  or  woman  who 
does  not  put  truth  first,  may  think  he  ought  to  have 
held  his  tongue.  But  neither  father  nor  mother  took 
offence.  The  mother,  unspeakably  relieved  by  what 
had  taken  place,  was  even  ready  to  allow  that  her 
favorite  preacher  might  "perhaps  dwell  too  much 
upon  the  terrors  of  the  law." 


CHAPTER  LIII. 


The  next  post  brought  a  letter  from  Simon  Armour, 
saying,  after  his  own  peculiar  fashion,  that  it  was 
time  the  thing  were  properly  understood  between  the 
parties  concerned ;  but,  that  done,  they  must  attend 
to  the  baronet's  wish,  and  disclose  nothing  yet ;  he 
believed  Sir  Wilton  had  his  reasons.  They  must 
therefore,  as  soon  as  possible,  make  it  clear  to  him 
that  there  was  no  break  in  the  chain  of  their  proof 
of  Richard's  identity.  He  proposed,  therefore,  that 
his  daughter  should  pay  her  father  a  visit,  and  bring 
Richard. 

The  suggestion  seemed  good  to  all  concerned. 
Criminal  as  she  knew  herself,  Jane  Tuke  did  not 
shrink  from  again  facing  Sir  Wilton,  with  the  nephew 
by  her  side  whom  one  and  twenty  years  before  she 
had  carried  in  her  arms  to  meet  his  unfatherly  gaze  ! 
To  her  surprise  she  found  that  she  almost  enjoyed 
the  idea. 

Richard  cashed  the  post-office-order  the  old  man 
sent  them,  and  they  set  out  for  his  cottage. 

The  same  day  Simon  went  to  Mortgrange  and  saw 
the  baronet,  who  agreed  at  once  to  go  to  the  cottage 
to  meet  his  sister-in-law. 

The  moment   he  entered  the  little  parlor   where 
they  waited  to  receive  him,  he  made  Mrs.  Tuke  a 
polite  bow,  and  held  out  his  hand. 
34 


530  THERE    AND    BACK. 


"You  are  the  sister  of  my  late  wife,  I  am  told," 
he  said. 

Jane  made  him  a  dignified  courtesy,  her  resent- 
ment, after  the  lapse  of  twenty  years,  rising  fresh  at 
at  sight  of  the  man  who  had  behaved  so  badly  to 
her  sister. 

"It  was  you  that  carried  off  the  child.?"  said  the 
baronet. 

"Yes,  sir,"  answered  Jane. 

"  I  am  glad  I  did  not  know  where  to  look  for  him. 
You  did  me  the  greatest  possible  favor.  What  these 
twenty  years  would  have  been  hke,  with  him  in  the 
house,  I  dare  not  think." 

"  It  was  for  the  child's  sake  I  did  it  !  "  said  Jane. 

"I  am  perfectly  aware  it  was  not  for  mine  !  "  re- 
turned Sir  Wilton.  "  Ha  !  ha  !  you  looked  as  if  you 
had  come  to  stab  me  that  day  you  brought  the  little 
object  to  the  library,  and  gave  me  such  a  scare! 
You  presented  his  fingers  and  toes  to  me  as  if,  by 
Jove,  I  was  the  devil,  and  had  made  them  so  on 
purpose  ! — I  tell  you,  Richard,  if  that's  your  name, 
you  rascal,  you  have  as  little  idea  what  a  preposter- 
ously ugly  creature  you  were,  as  I  had  that  you 
would  ever  grow  to  be — well,  half-fit  to  look  at !  I 
was  appalled  at  the  sight  of  you  !  And  a  good 
thing  it  was  !  If  I  had  taken  to  you,  and  brought 
ycfu  up  at  home,  it  would  scarcely  have  been  to  your 
advantage.  You  would  have  been  worth  less  than 
you  are,  however  little  that  may  be  !  But  it  doesn't 
follow  you're  the  least  fit  to  be  owned  to  !  You're  a 
tradesman,  every  inch  of  you — no  more  like  a  gentle- 
man than  -well,  not  half  so  like  a  gentleman  as  your 
grandfather  there!  By  heaven,  the  anvil  must  be 
some    sort   of    education  !      Why    wasn't   /   bound 


MORNING.  531 

apprentice  to  my  old  friend  Simon  there !  But, 
Richard,  you  don't  look  a  gentleman,  though  your 
aunt  looks  as  if  she  would  eat  me  for  saying  it. — 
Now  listen  to  me — all  of  you.  It's  no  use  your  say- 
ing I've  acknowledged  him.  If  I  choose  to  say  I 
know  nothing  about  him,  then,  as  I  told  the  rascal 
himself  the  other  day,  you'll  have  to  prove  your 
case,  and  that  will  take  money  !  and  when  you've 
proved  it,  you  get  nothing  but  the  title,  and  much 
good  that  will  do  you  !  So  you  had  better  make  up 
all  your  minds  to  do  as  I  tell  you — that  is,  not  to  say 
one  word  about  the  affair,  but  just  hold  your  tongues. 
— Now  none  of  that  looking  at  one  another,  as  if  I 
meant  to  do  you  !  I'm  not  going  to  have  people  say 
my  son  shows  the  tradesman  in  him  !  I'm  not  going 
to  have  the  Lestranges  knock  under  to  the  Armours  ! 
I'm  going  to  have  the  rascal  the  gentleman  I  can  make 
him  ! — You're  to  go  to  college  directly,  sir  ;  and  I  don't 
want  to  hear  of  or  from  you  till  you've  taken  your 
degree  !  You  shall  have  two  hundred  a  year  and 
pay  your  own  fees — not  a  penny  more  if  you  go  on 
your  marrow-bones  for  it ! — You  understand  ?  You're 
not  to  attempt  communicating  with  me.  If  there's 
anything  I  ought  to  know,  let  your  grandfather  come 
to  me.  I  will  see  him  when  he  pleases — or  go  to 
him,  if  he  prefers  it,  and  I'm  not  too  gouty.  Only, 
mind,  I  make  no  promises  !  If  I  should  leave  all  I 
have  to  the  other  lot,  you  will  have  no  right  to  com- 
plain. With  the  education  I  will  give  you,  and  the 
independence  your  uncle  has  given  you,  and  the 
good  sense  you  have  on  your  own  hook,  you're  pro- 
vided for.  You  can  be  a  doctor  or  a  parson,  you 
know.  There's  more  than  one  living  in  my  gift. 
The  Reverend  Sir  Richard  Lestrange  ! — it  don't  sound 


53^ 


THERE    AND    BACK. 


amiss.  I'm  sorry  I  shan't  hear  it.  I  shall  be  gone 
where  they  crop  one  of  everything — even  of  his 
good  works,  the  parsons  say,  but  I  shan't  be  much 
the  barer  for  that !  It's  hard— confounded  hard, 
though,  when  they're  all  a  fellow  has  got  ! — Now 
don't  say  a  word  !  I  don't  like  being  contradicted  ! — 
not  at  all !  It  sends  one  round  on  the  other  tack,  I 
tell  you — and  there's  my  gout  coming  !  Only  mind 
this  :  if  once  you  say  who  you  are  as  long  as  you're 
at  college,  or  before  I  give  you  leave,  I  have  done 
with  you.  I  won't  have  any  little  plan  of  mine  fore- 
stalled for  your  vanity  !  Don't  any  of  you  say  who 
he  is.  It  will  be  better  for  him — much.  If  it  be 
but  hinted  who  he  is,  he'll  be  courted  and  flattered, 
and  then  he'll  be  stuck  up,  and  take  to  spending 
money  !  But,  remember  this,  if  he  goes  beyond  his 
allowance — well,  I'll  pay  it,  but  it  shall  be  his  last 
day  at  Oxford.  He  shall  go  at  once  into  the  navy — 
or  the  excise,  by  George  !  " 

This  expression  of  the  baronet's  will,  if  not  quite 
to  the  satisfaction  of  every  one  concerned,  was  alto- 
gether delightful  to  Richard. 

"May  I  say  one  word,  sir.?"  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  if  it's  not  arguing." 

"I've  not  read  a  page  of  Latin  since  I  left  school, 
and  I  never  knew  any  Greek." 

"  Oh  !  ah  !  I  forgot  that  predicament !  You  must 
have  a  tutor  to  prepare  you  ! — but  you  shall  go  to 
Oxford  with  him.  I  will  not  have  you  loafing  about 
here  !  You  may  remain  with  your  grandfather  till  I 
find  one,  but  you're  not  to  come  near  Mortgrange." 

"I  may  go  to  London  with  my  mother,  may  I 
not .?  "  said  Richard. 


MORNING.  533 

"I  see  nothing  against  that.  It  will  be  the  better 
way." 

"If  you  please,  Sir  Wilton,"  said  Mrs.  Tuke,  "I 
left  evidence  at  Mortgrange  of  what  I  should  have  to 
say." 

"  What  sort  of  evidence  ?  " 

"Things  that  belonged  to  the  child  and  myself." 

"  Where.-*  " 

"  Hid  in  the  nursery." 

"  My  lady  had  everything  moved,  and  the  room 
fresh-papered  after  you  left.  I  remember  that  dis- 
tinctly." 

"Did  she  say  nothing  about  finding  anything .?  " 

"Nothing. — Of  course  she  wouldn't !  " 

"  I  left  a  box  of  my  own,  with " 

"  You'll  never  see  it  again." 

"The  things  the  child  always  wore  wdien  he  went 
out,  were  under  the  wardrobe." 

"  Oblige  me  by  saying  nothing  about  them.  I  am 
perfectly  satisfied,  and  believe  every  word  you  say. 
I  believe  Richard  there  the  child  of  your  sister 
Robina  and  myself;  and  it  shall  not  be  my  fault  if 
he  don't  have  his  rights  !  At  the  same  time  I  promise 
nothing,  and  will  manage  things  as  I  see  best." 

"At  your  pleasure,  sir  !  "  answered  Mrs.  Tuke. 

"Should  you  mind,  sir,  if  I  went  to  see  Mr.  Wing- 
fold  before  I  go  .? "  asked  Richard. 

"  Who's  he?  " 

"The  clergyman  of  the  next  parish,  sir." 

' '  I  don't  know-  him — don't  want  to  know  him  ; — 
What  have  you  got  to  do  with  him  P" 

"He  was  kind  to  me  when  I  was  down  here 
before. " 


534  THKRE    AND    BACK. 

"I  don't  care  you  should  have  much  to  do  with 
the  clergy." 

"You  said,  sir,  I  might  go  into  the  church  !  " 

^'That's  another  thing  quite!  You  would  have 
the  thing  in  your  own  hands  then  !  "' 

Richard  was  silent.      There  was  no  point  to  argue. 

The  moment  Sir  Wilton  was  gone,  Simon  turned 
to  his  grandson. 

"  It  was  a  pity  you  asked  him  about  Mr.  Wingfold. 
The  only  thing  is,  you  mustn't  let  out  his  secret.  As 
to  seeing  ]\Ir.  Wingfold,  or  Miss  Wylder  either,  just 
do  as  you  please." 

"No,  grandfather.  If  I  had  not  asked  him,  per- 
haps I  might ;  but  to  ask  him,  and  then  not  do  what 
he  told  me,  would  be  a  sneaking  shame  !  " 

"You're  right,  my  boy  !  Hold  on  that  way,  and 
you'll  never  be  ashamed — or  make  your  people 
ashamed  either." 

For  the  meantime,  then,  Richard  went  to  London 
with  his  mother ;  and  so  anxious  was  old  Simon, 
stimulated  in  part  by  the  faithfulness  of  his  grandson, 
to  do  nothing  that  might  thwart  the  pleasure  of  the 
tyrant,  that  when  first  Wingfold  asked  after  Richard, 
he  told  him  he  was  at  home,  and  the  next  time  that 
he  was  at  work  in  the  country. 

.  Richard  went  on  helping  his  uncle,  and  going 
often  to  see  his  brother  and  sister.  When  Arthur  was 
able  for  the  journey,  both  he  and  Alice  went  with 
him.  At  the  station  they  were  met  by  Simon,  with 
an  old  post-chaise  he  had  to  mend  up.  Having  seen 
Arthur  comfortably  settled,  his  brother  and  sister 
went  back  to  London  together— Alice  to  go  into  a 
single  room,  and  betake  herself  once  more  to  her 
work,  but  with  new  courage   and   hope  ;  Richard  to 


535 


the  book-binding-  till  his  father  should   have  found  a 
tutor  for  him. 

The  Tukes  were  slowly  becoming  used,  if  not  re- 
conciled to  his  care  of  the  Mansons.  His  mother, 
indignant  for  her  deceased  sister,  stood  out  the  stiff- 
est ;  the  bookbinder  could  not  fail  to  see  that  the 
youth  was  but  putting  in  practice  the  socialistic  theo- 
ries he  had  himself  sought  to  teach  him.  True,  the 
thing  came  straight  from  the  heart  of  Richard,  and 
went  much  farther  than  his  uncle's  theories  ;  but  his 
uncle  counted  it  the  result  of  his  own  training,  and 
woke  at  last  to  the  fact  that  his  theories  were  better 
than  he  had  himself  known. 

With  the  help  of  the  head  of  the  college  to  which 
Sir  Wilton  had  resolved  to  send  his  son,  a  tutor  was 
at  length  found — happily  for  Richard,  one  of  the 
right  sort.  They  went  together  to  Oxford,  and  set  to 
work  at  once.  It  would  be  hard  to  say  which  of  the 
two  reaped  the  more  pleasure  from  the  relation,  or 
which,  in  the  duplex  process  of  teaching  and  learning, 
gained  the  most.  For  the  tutor  had  in  Richard  a 
pupil  of  practiced  brain  yet  fresh,  a  live  soul  ready, 
for  its  own  need  and  nourishment,  to  use  every  truth 
it  came  near.  His  penetrative  habit  made  not  a  few 
•regard  him  as  a  bore  :  their  feeble  vitality  was  troub- 
led by  the  energy  of  his  ;  he  could  not  let  a  thing  go 
in  which  he  descried  a  principle  :  he  must  see  it 
close  !  To  the  more  experienced  he  was  one  who 
had  not  yet  learned,  wisely  fearful  of  the  trampling 
hoof,  to  carry  aside  his  oyster  with  its  possible  pearl 
before  he  opened  it.  In  earnest  about  everything,  he 
must  work  out  his  liberty  before  he  could  gambol. 
A  slave  vi^ill  amuse  himself  in  his  dungeon  ;  a  free 
man  must  file  through  his  chains  and  dig  through  his 


536  THERE    AND    BACK. 


prison-walls  before  he  can  frolic.  Sunlight  and  air 
came  through  his  open  windows  enough  to  keep 
Richard  alive  and  strong,  but  not  enough  yet  to  make 
him  merry.  He  was  too  solemn,  thus,  for  most  of 
those  he  met,  but,  happily,  not  for  his  tutor.  Find- 
ing Richard  knew  ten  times  as  much  of  English 
literature  as  himself,  he  became  in  this  department 
his  pupil's  pupil ;  and  listening  to  his  occasional 
utterance  of  a  religious  difficulty,  had  new  regions  of 
thought  opened  in  him,  to  the  deepening  and  verifying 
of  his  nature.  The  result  for  the  tutor  was  that  he 
sought  ordination,  in  the  hope  of  giving  to  others 
what  had  at  length  become  real  to  himself. 

Richard  gained  little  distinction  at  his  examinations. 
He  did  well  enough,  but  was  too  eager  after  real 
knowledge  to  care  about  appearing  to  know. 

He  made  friends,  but  not  many  familiar  friends. 
He  sorely  missed  ministration  :  it  had  grown  a  neces- 
sity of  his  nature.  It  was  well  that  the  habit  should 
be  broken  for  a  time.  For,  laden  with  consciousness, 
and  not  full  of  God,  the  soul  will  delight  in  itself  as 
a  benefactor,  a  regnant  giver,  the  centre  of  thanks  and 
obligation  :  and  will  thus,  with  a  rampart-mound  of 
self-satisfaction,  dam  out  the  original  creative  life  of 
its  being,  the  recognition  of  which  is  life  eternal. 
But  it  grew  upon  Richard  that,  if  there  be  a  God,  it 
is  the  one  business  of  a  man  to  find  him,  and  that,  if 
he  vi'ould  find  him,  he  must  obey  the  voice  of  his 
conscience. 

As  to  the  outward  show  of  the  man,  Richard's 
carriage  was  improving.  Level  intercourse  with 
men  of  his  own  age,  but  more  at  home  in  what  is 
called  society,  influenced  his  manners  both  with  and 
without  his  will,  while,  all  the  time,  he  was  gather- 


537 


ing  the  confidence  of  experience.  His  rowing,  and 
the  daily  run  to  and  from  the  boats,  with  other  exer- 
cises prescribed  by  his  tutor,  strengthened  the  shoul- 
ders whose  early  stoop  had  threatened  to  return  with 
much  reading.  He  was  fast  growing  more  than  pre- 
sentable. 

With  the  men  of  his  year,  his  character  more  than 
his  faculty  had  influence. 

Old  Simon  was  doing  his  best  for  Arthur.  He 
would  not  hear  of  his  going  back  to  London,  or  at- 
tempting anything  in  the  way  of  work  beyond  a  little 
in  the  garden.      He  was  indeed  nowise  fit  for  more. 

The  blacksmith  himself  was  making  progress — the 
best  parts  of  him  were  growing  fast.  Age  was  turning 
the  strength  into  channels  and  mill-streams,  which 
before,  wild-foaming,  had  flooded  the  meadows. 


CHAPTER  LIV. 


BARBARA     AT     HOM 


Barbara's  brother,  her  father's  twin,  was  fast  fol- 
lowing- her  mother's  to  that  somewhere  each  of  us 
must  learn  for  himself,  no  one  can  learn  from  an- 
other. While  they  were  in  London,  he  was  in  the  Isle 
of  Wight  with  his  tutor.  His  mother  and  sister  had 
several  times  gone  to  see  him,  but  he  did  not  show 
much  pleasure  in  their  attentions,  and  was  certainly- 
happier  with  his  tutor  than  with  any  one  else.  Dis- 
ease, however,  was  making  straight  the  path  of 
Love.  Now  they  were  all  at  home  at  W^ylder  Hall, 
and  Death  was  on  his  way  to  join  them.  Love, 
however,  was  watching,  ready  to  wrest  from  him  his 
sting — without  which  he  is  no  more  Death,  but  Sleep. 
As  the  poor  fellow  grew  weaker,  his  tutor  became 
less  able  to  console  him  ;  and  he  could  not  look  to 
his  mother  for  the  tenderness  he  had  seen  her  lavish 
on  his  brother.  But  the  love  of  his  sister  had  always 
leaned  toward  him,  ready,  on  the  least  opening  of  the 
door  of  his  heart,  to  show  itself  in  the  chink  ;  and  at 
last  the  opportunity  of  being  to  him  and  doing  for  him 
what  she  could,  arrived.  One  day,  on  the  lawn,  he 
tripped  and  fell.  The  strong  little  Barbara  took  him 
in  her  arms,  and  carried  him  to  his  room.  When 
two  drops  of  water  touch,  the  mere  contact  is  not  of 
long  duration  ;  the  hearts  of  the  sister  and  the  dying 
brother  rushed  into  each  other.     After  this,  they  were 


BARBARA    AT    HOME.  539 

seldom  apart.  A  new  life  had  waked  in  the  very- 
heart  of  death,  and  grew  and  spread  through  the 
being  of  the  boy.  His  eye  became  brighter,  not 
with  fever  only,  but  with  love  and  content  and 
hope  ;  for  Barbara  made  him  feel  that  nothing  could 
part  them  ;  that  they  had  been  born  into  the  world 
for  the  hour  when  they  should  find  one  another — 
— as  now  they  had  found  one  another,  to  have  one 
another  to  all  eternity  :  it  was  an  end  of  their  be- 
ing !  He  would  come  creeping  up  to  her  as  she 
worked  or  read,  and  sit  on  a  stool  at  her  feet, 
asking  for  nothing,  wishing  for  nothing,  content  to 
be  near  her.  But  then  Barbara's  book  or  work  was 
soon  banished.  He  was  bigger  than  she,  but  the 
muscles  of  the  little  maiden  were  as  springs  of  steel, 
informed  with  the  tenderest,  strongest  heart  in  all  the 
county,  and  presently  he  would  find  himself  lifted 
to  her  lap,  his  head  on  her  shoulder,  the  sweetest 
voice  in  all  the  world  whispering  loveliest  secrets  in 
his  willing  ear,  and  her  face  bent  over  him  with  the 
stoop  of  heaven  over  the  patient,  weary  earth.  In 
her  arms  his  poor  wasting  body  forgot  its  restless- 
ness ;  the  fever  that  irritated  every  nerve,  burning 
away  the  dust  of  the  world,  seemed  to  pause  and  let 
him  grow  a  little  cool ;  and  the  sleep  that  sometimes 
came  to  him  there  was  sweet  as  death.  The  face 
that  had  so  long  looked  peevish  wore  now  a  wait- 
ing look  ;  in  heaven,  every  one  sheltered  the  other, 
and  the  arms  of  God  were  round  them  all  ! 

One  day  the  mother  peeped  in,  and  saw  them 
seated  thus.  Motherhood,  strong  in  her,  though 
hitherto,  as  regarded  the  boy,  poisoned  by  her  strife 
with  her  husband,  moved  and  woke  at  the  sight  of 
her  natural  place  occupied  by  her  daughter. 


540  THERE    AND    BACK. 


"  Let  me  take  him,   poor  fellow  !  "  she  said. 

Delighted  that  her  mother  should  do  something-  for 
him,  Barbara  rose  with  him  in  her  arms.  The  mother 
sat  down,  and  Barbara  laid  him  in  her  lap.  But  the 
mother  felt  him  lie  listless  and  dead  ;  no  arm  came 
creeping  feebly  up  to  encircle  her  neck.  One  of  her 
babies  died  unborn,  and  she  knew  the  moment :  the 
strange  sad  feeling  of  the  time  came  back  to  her  now  ; 
she  felt  through  all  her  sensitive  maternal  body  that 
her  child  did  not  care  for  her.  Grown,  through  her 
late  illness,  at  once  weaker  and  tenderer,  she  burst 
into  silent  weeping.  He  looked  up;  the  convulsion 
of  her  pain  had  roused  him  from  a  half-sleep.  A  tear 
dropped  on  his  face. 

"  Don't  rain,  mamma  !  I  will  be  good  !  "  he  said, 
and  held  his  mouth  to  be  kissed. 

He  was  much  too  old  for  such  baby-speech,  but  as 
he  grew  weaker,  he  had  grown  younger ;  and  it 
seemed  now  as  if,  in  his  utter  helplessness,  he  would 
go  back  to  the  bosom  of  his  mother.  She  clasped 
him  to  her,  and  from  that  moment  she  and  Barbara 
shared  him  between  them. 

So  for  a  while  Barbara  had  not  the  same  room  to 
think  about  Richard  ;  but  when  she  did  think  of 
him,  it  was  always  in  the  same  loving,  trusting, 
hoping  way. 

When  in  London,  she  went  to  all  the  parties  to 
which  she  was  expected  to  go,  and  enjoyed  them — 
after  her  own  fashion.  She  loved  her  kind,  and  liked 
their  company  up  to  a  point.  But  often  would  the 
crowd  and  the  glitter,  the  motion  and  iridescence, 
vanish  from  her,  and  she  sit  there  a  live  soul  dream- 
ing within  closed  doors.  She  would  be  pacing  her 
weary  pony   through  a  pale  land,  under  a  globose 


BARBARA    AT    HOME.  54 1 

moon,  homeward ;  or,  on  the  back  of  one  of  her 
father's  fleet  horses,  sweeping  eastward  over  the 
grassy  land,  in  the  level  light  of  the  setting  sun,  watch- 
ing the  strange  herald-shadow  of  herself  and  her  horse 
rushing  away  before  them,  ever  more  distort  as  it 
fled : — like  some  ghastly  monster,  in  horror  at  itself, 
it  hurried  to  the  infinite  seeking  blessed  annihilation, 
and  ever  gathering  speed  as  the  sun  of  its  being  sank, 
till  at  last  it  gained  the  goal  of  its  nirvana,  not  by  its 
well  run  race,  but  in  the  darkness  of  its  vanished 
creator.  Then  with  a  sigh  would  Barbara  come  to 
herself,  the  centre  of  many  regards. 

Arthur  Lestrange  found  himself  no  nearer  to  her 
than  before — farther  off  indeed  ;  for  here  he  was  but 
one  among  many  that  sought  her.  But  her  be- 
havior to  him  was  the  same  in  a  crowded  room  in 
London  as  in  the  garden  at  Mortgrange.  She  spoke 
to  him  kindly,  turned  friendlily  to  him  when  he 
addressed  her,  and  behaved  so  that  the  lying  hint  of 
Lady  Ann,  that  they  had  been  for  some  time  engaged, 
was  easily  believed.  A  certain  self-satisfied,  well- 
dressed  idiot  said  it  was  a  pity  a  girl  like  that,  a  little 
Amazon,  who,  for  as  innocent  as  she  looked,  could 
ride  backward  and  steer  her  steed  straight,  should 
marry  a  half-baked  brick  like  Lestrange  :  Arthur, 
though  he  was  not  one  of  the  worthiest,  was  worth 
ten  of  him,  faultless  as  were  his  coats  and  neckties  ! 

Her  father  had  several  times  said  to  her  that  it 
M'as  time  she  should  marry,  but  had  never  got  nearer 
anything  definite  ;  for  there  her  eyes  would  flash, 
and  her  mouth  close  tight — compelling  the  reflection 
that  her  mother  had  been  more  than  enough  for  him, 
and  he  had  better  not  throw  his  daughter  into  the 
opposition  as  well.      He  could  not,  he  saw  clearly. 


542 


THERE    AND    BACK. 


prevail  with  her  against  her  liking  ;  but  it  would  be 
an  infernal  pity,  he  thought,  seeing  poor  Marcus 
must  go,  if  she  would  not  liave  Lestrange  ;  for  the 
properties  would  marry  splendidly,  and  then  who 
could  tell  what  better  title  might  not  stand  on  the  top 
of  the  baronetcy  ! 

Lady  Ann  would  not  let  her  hope  go.  She  grew 
daily  more  fearful  of  the  cloud  that  hung  in  the 
future  :  out  of  it  might  at  any  moment  step  the  child 
of  her  enemy,  the  low  born  woman  who  had  dared 
to  be  Lady  Lestrange  before  her  !  Then  where  would 
she  and  her  children  be.'  That  her  Arthur  would  not 
succeed  him,  would  be  a  morsel  to  sweeten  her  hus- 
band's death  for  him  !  It  would  be  life  in  death  to 
him  to  spite  the  woman  he  had  married  !  At  one 
crisis  in  their  history,  he  had  placed  in  her  hands  a 
will  that  left  everything  to  her  son  ;  but  he  might 
have  made  ten  wills  after  that  one  !  She  knew  she 
had  done  nothing  to  please  him  :  she  had  in  fact 
never  spent  a  thought  on  making  life  a  good  thing 
to  the  man  she  had  married.  She  wished  she  had 
endeavored  or  might  now  endeavor  to  make  herself 
agreeable  to  him.  But  it  was  too  late  !  Sir  Wilton 
would  instantly  imagine  a  rumor  of  the  lost  heir,  and 
be  on  the  alert  for  her  discomfiture  !  If  only  he  had 
not  yet  made  a  later  will  !  He  must  die  one  day  : 
why  not  in  time  to  make  his  death  of  use  when  his 
life  was  of  none  !  No  one  would  wonder  he  had 
preferred  the  offspring  of  her  noble  person  to  the  lost 
brat  of  the  peasant  woman  ! 

How  far  over  the  line  that  separates  guilt  from 
greed.  Lady  Ann  might  not  have  gone  had  she  been 
sure  of  not  being  found  out,  she  herself  could  not 
have  told.     The  look  of  things  is  very  different  at 


BARBARA    AT    HOME. 


543 


night  and  in  the  morning  ;  the  bed-chamber  can 
shelter  what  would  be  a  horror  in  a  court  of  justice  ; 
a  conscience  at  peace  in  its  own  darkness  will  shud- 
der in  the  gaslight  of  public  opinion.  It  is  marvel- 
lous that  what  we  call  the  public,  a  mere  imbecile  as 
to  judgment,  should  yet  possess  the  Godlike  power 
of  awakening  the  individual  conscience — and  that 
with  its  own  large  dullness  of  conscience  !  Truly 
the  relation  of  the  world  to  its  maker  cannot  primarily 
be  an  intellectual  one  ;  it  must  be  a  relation  tremen- 
dously deeper  !  We  do  not,  I  mean,  to  speak  after 
the  manner  of  men,  come  of  God's  intellect,  but 
of  his  imagination.  He  did  not  make  us  with  his 
hands,  but  loved  us  out  of  his  heart. 

The  same  week  in  which  Sir  Wilton  gave  that  will 
into  his  lady's  keeping,  he  executed  a  second,  in 
which  he  made  the  virtue  of  the  former  depend  on 
the  non-appearance  of  the  lost  heir.  Of  this  will  he 
said  nothing  to  his  wife.  Even  from  the  grave  he 
would  hold  a  shadowy  yet  not  impotent  rod  over 
her  and  her  family  !  Lady  Ann  suspected  something 
of  the  sort,  and  spent  every  moment  safe  from  his 
possible  appearance,  in  searching  for  some  such 
hidden  torpedo.  But  there  was  one  thing  of  which 
Sir  Wilton  took  better  care  than  of  his  honor — and 
that  was  his  bunch  of  keys. 

After  the  return  of  the  Lestranges  and  the  Wylders 
to  their  country-homes,  Lady  Ann,  having  prevailed 
on  Mrs.  Wylder  to  pay  her  a  visit,  initiated  an  attempt 
to  gain  her  connivance  in  her  project  for  the  alliance 
of  the  houses.  For  this  purpose  she  opened  upon 
her  with  the  same  artillery  she  had  employed  against 
her  husband.  Mrs.  Wylder  sat  for  some  time  quietly 
listening,  but  looking  so  like  her  daughter,  that  Lady 


544 


THERE    AND    BACK. 


Ann  saw  the  mother's  and  not  the  father's  was  the 
alliance  to  seek.  Thereupon  she  plucked  the  tom- 
pion  out  of  the  best  gun  in  her  battery,  as  she  thought, 
and  began  to  hint  a  fear  that  Miss  Wylder  had  taken 
a  fancy  to  a  person  unworthy  of  her. 

"Girls  who  have  not  been  much  in  society,"  she 
said,  "are  not  unfrequently  the  sport  of  strange  in- 
fatuations !  I  have  myself  known  an  earl's  daughter 
marry  a  baker  !  I  do  not,  of  course,  imagine  your 
daughter  guilty  of  the  slightest  impropriety, " 

Scarcely  had  the  vi^ord  left  her  lips,  when  a  fury 
stood  before  her— towered  above  her,  eyes  flashing 
and  mouth  set,  as  if  on  the  point  of  tearing  her  to 
pieces. 

"  Say  the  word  and  my  Bab  in  the  same  breath 
again,  and  I'll  throttle  you,  you  vile  woman  !  "  cried 
Mrs.  Wylder,  and  hung  there  like  a  thunder-cloud, 
lightening  continuously. 

Lady  Ann  was  not  of  a  breed  familiar  with  fear,  but, 
for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  except  in  the  presence  of 
her  mother,  a  far  more  formidable  person  than  her- 
self, she  did  feel  afraid — of  what,  she  would  have 
found  it  hard  to  say,  for  to  acknowledge  the  possi- 
bility of  personal  violence  would  be  almost  as  undig- 
nified as  to  threaten  it ! 

"  I  did  not  mean  to  offend  you,"  she  said,  grow- 
ing a  little  paler,  but  at  the  same  time  more  rigid. 

"What  sort  of  mother  do  you  take  me  for.?  Of- 
fended, indeed  !  Would  you  be  all  honey,  I  should 
like  to  know,  if  I  had  the  assurance  to  say  such  a 
thing  of  one  of  your  girls.?  " 

"  I  spoke  as  to  a  mother  who  knew  what  girls  are 
like  !  " 

"You  don't  know  what  my  girl  Bab  is  like  !  "  cried 


BARBARA    AT    HOME. 


545 


Mrs.  Wylder,  with  something-  that  much  resembled 
an  imprecation  :  the  word  she  used  would  shock 
thousands  of  mothers  not  comparable  to  her  in 
motherhood.  If  propriety  were  righteousness,  the 
kingdom  of  heaven  would  be  already  populous. 

Lady  Ann  was  offended,  and  seriously  :  was  alli- 
ance with  such  a  woman  permissible  or  sufferable.? 
But  she  was  silent.  For  once  in  her  life  she  did  not 
know  the  proper  thing  to  say.  Was  the  woman  mad, 
or  only  a  savage  ? 

Mrs.  Wylder's  eloquence  required  opposition.  She 
turned  away,  and  with  a  backward  glance  of  blazing 
wrath,  left  the  room  and  the  house. 

"Home  ;  and  be  quick  about  it !  "  she  said  to  the 
footman  as  he  closed  the  door  of  the  carriage — and 
she  disappeared  in  a  whirlwind. 

From  the  library  Sir  Wilton  saw  her  stormy  exit 
and  departure.  "By  Jove!"  he  said  to  himself, 
"  that  woman  must  be  one  of  the  right  sort !  She's 
what  my  Ruby  might  have  been  by  this  time  if  she'd 
been  spared  !  A  hundred  to  one,  my  lady  was  inso- 
lent to  her !— said  something  cool  about  her  madcap 
girl,  probably  !  She's  the  right  sort,  by  Jove,  that 
Httle  Bab  I  If  only  my  Richard  now,  leathery  fellow, 
would  glue  on  to  her !  There's  nothing  left  in  this 
cursed  world  of  the  devil  and  all  his  angels  that  I 
should  like  half  so  well  !  I'll  put  him  up  to  it,  I  will ! 
Arthur  and  she  indeed  !  As  if  a  plate  of  porridge  like 
Arthur  would  draw  a  fireflash  like  Bab  !  I'd  give  the 
whole  litter  of  'em,  and  throw  in  the  dam,  to  call 
that  plucky  little  robin  my  girl !  I'd  give  my  soul  to 
have  such  a  girl  ! " 

It  did  not  occur  to  him   that  his  soul  for  Barbara 
would  scarcely  be  fair  barter. 
35 


546  THERE    AND    BACK. 


"Dick's  well  enough,"  he  went  on,  "but  he's  a 
man,  and  you've  got  to  quarrel  with  him  !  I'm  tired 
of  quarrelling  !  " 

The  instant  she  reached  home,  Mrs.  Wylder  sent 
for  her  daughter,  and  demanded,  fury  still  blazing  in 
her  eyes,  what  she  had  been  doing  to  give  that  beast 
of  a  Lady  Ann  a  right  to  talk. 

"Tell  me  first  how  she  talked,  mamma,"  returned 
Barbara,  used  to  her  mother's  ways,  and  nowise  an- 
noyed at  being  so  addressed.  "I  can't  have  been 
doing  anything  very  bad,  for  she's  been  doing  what 
she  can  to  get  me  and  keep  me." 

"  She  has  ? — And  you  never  told  me  !  " 

"  I  didn't  think  it  worth  telling  you. — She's  been 
setting  papa  on  to  me  too  !  " 

"  Oh  !  I  see  !  And  you  wouldn't  set  him  and  me 
on  each  other  !  Dutiful  child  !  You  reckoned  you'd 
had  enough  of  that !  But  I'll  have  no  buying  and 
selling  of  my  goods  behind  my  back  !  If  you  speak 
one  more  civil  word  to  that  young  jackanapes  Les- 
trange,  you  shall  hear  it  again  on  both  your  ears  !  " 

"  I  will  not  speak  an  uncivil  word  to  him,  mamma  ; 
he  has  never  given  me  occasion  ;  but  I  shan't  break 
my  heart  if  I  never  see  him  again.  If  you  like,  I 
won't  once  go  near  the  place.  Theodora's  the  only 
one  I  care  about — and  she's  as  dull  as  she  is  good  !  " 

"What  did  the  kangaroo  mean  by  saying  you  were 
sweet  on  somebody  not  worthy  of  you?  " 

"I  know  what  she  meant,  mother;  but  the  man  is 
worthy  of  a  far  better  woman  than  me — and  I  hope 
he'll  get  her  some  day  !  " 

Thereupon  little  Bab  burst  into  tears,  half  of  rage, 
half  of  dread  lest  her  good  wish  for  Richard  should 
be  granted  otherwise  than  she  meant  it.      For  she  did 


BARBARA    AT    HOME.  547 


not  at  the  moment  desire  very  keenly  that  he  should 
get  all  he  deserved,  but  thought  she  might  herself 
just  do,  while  she  did  hope  to  be  a  better  woman 
before  the  day  arrived. 

"Come,  come,  child  !  None  of  that !  I  don't  like 
it.  I  don't  want  to  cry  on  the  top  of  my  rage.  What 
is  the  man?  Who  is  he?  What  does  the  woman 
know  about  him  ?  " 

At  once  Barbara  began,  and  told  her  mother  the 
whole  story  of  Richard  and  herself.  The  mother 
listened.  Old  days  and  the  memory  of  a  lover,  not 
high  in  the  social  scale,  whom  she  had  to  give  up  to 
marry  Mr.  Wylder,  came  back  upon  her,  and  her 
heart  went  with  her  daughter's  before  she  knew  what 
it  was  about ;  her  daughter's  love  and  her  own  seemed 
to  mingle  in  one  dusky  shine,  as  if  the  daughter  had 
inherited  the  mother's  experience.  The  heart  of  the 
mother  would  not  have  her  child  like  herself  gather 
but  weed-flowers  of  sorrow  among  the  roses  in  the 
garden  of  love.  She  had  learned  this  much,  that  the 
things  the  world  prizes  are  of  little  good  to  still  the 
hearts  of  women.  But  when  Barbara  told  her  how 
Lady  Ann  would  have  it  that  this  same  Richard,  the 
bookbinder,  was  a  natural  son  of  Sir  Wilton,  she 
started  to  her  feet,  crying  : 

"Then  the  natural  bookbinder  shall  have  her,  and 
my  lady's  fool  may  go  to  the  dogs  !  You  shall  have 
nty  money,  Bab,  anyhow." 

"But,  mammy  dear,"  said  Barbara,  "what  will 
papa  say  ?  " 

"Poof!"  returned  her  mother.  "I've  known  him 
too  long  to  care  what  he  says  !  " 

"I  don't  like  offending  him,"  returned  Barbara. 

"Don't  mention  him  again,  child,  or  I'll  turn  him 


545 


THERE    AND    BACK. 


loose  on  your  bookbinder.  Am  I  to  put  my  own 
ewe-lamb  to  the  same  torture  I  had  to  suffer  by  marry- 
ing him  !  God  forbid  !  When  you're  happy  with 
your  husband,  perhaps  you'll  think  of  me  sometimes 
and  say,  'My  mother  did  it!  She  wasn't  a  good 
woman,  but  she  loved  her  Bab  ! ' " 

A  passionate  embrace  followed.  Barbara  left  the 
room  with  a  happy  heart,  and  went — not  to  her  own 
to  brood  on  her  love,  but  to  her  brother's,  whose  feeble 
voice  she  heard  calling  her.  Upon  him  her  gladness 
overflowed. 


CHAPTER  LV. 


MISS    BROWN. 


The  same  evening  Barbara  rode  to  the  smithy,  in 
the  hope  of  hearing  some  news  of  Richard  from  his 
grandfather.  The  old  man  was  busy  at  the  anvil 
when  he  heard  Miss  Brown's  hoofs  on  the  road.  He 
dropped  his  hammer,  flung  the  tongs  on  the  forge, 
and  leaving  the  iron  to  cool  on  the  anvil,  went  to 
meet  her. 

"How  do  you  do,  grandfather.?"  said  Barbara, 
with  unconscious  use  of  the  appellation. 

Simon  was  well  pleased  to  be  called  grandfather, 
but  too  politic  and  too  well  bred  to  show  his  pleasure. 

"As  well  as  hard  work  can  help  me  to.  How  are 
you  yourself,  my  pretty.''"  returned  Simon. 

"As  well  as  nothing  to  do — except  nursing  poor 
Mark — will  let  me,"  she  answered.  "Please  can 
you  tell  me  anything  about  Richard  yet  ?  " 

"  Can  you  keep  a  secret,  honey  ?  "  rejoined  Simon. 
"  I  ain't  sure  as  I'm  keeping  strict  within  the  law, 
but  if  I  didn't  think  you  fit,  I  shouldn't  say  a  word." 

"Don't  tell  me,  if  it  be  anything  I  ought  to  tell  if  I 
knew  it. " 

"  If  you  can  show  me  you  ought  to  tell  any  one, 
I  will  release  you  from  your  promise.  But  perhaps 
you  feel  you  ought  to  tell  everything  to  your 
mother  ? " 

"No,   not  other  people's  secrets.     But   I   think  I 


550  THERE    AND    BACK. 


won't  have  it.  I  don't  like  secrets.  I'm  frightened 
at  them." 

"Then  I'll  tell  you  at  my  own  risk,  for  you're  the 
rig-ht  sort  to  trust,  promise  or  no  promise.  I  only 
hope  you  will  not  tell  without  letting  me  know  first ; 
because  then  I  might  have  to  do  something  else  by 
way  of — what  do  they  call  it  when  you  take  poison, 
and  then  take  something  to  keep  it  from  hurting  you.'' 
— Richard's  gone  to  college  !  " 

Bab  slid  from  Miss  Brown's  back,  flung  her  arms, 
with  the  bridle  on  one  of  them,  round  the  black- 
smith's neck,  and,  heedless  of  Miss  Brown's  fright, 
jumped  up,  and  kissed  the  old  man  for  the  good  news. 

"Miss  !  miss  !  your  clean  face  !  "  cried  the  black- 
smith. 

"  Oh,  Richard  !  Richard  !  you  will  he  happy  now  !  " 
she  said,  her  voice  trembling  with  buried  tears. 
"  — But  will  he  ever  shoe  Miss  Brown  again,  grand- 
father ?  " 

"  Many's  the  time,  I  trust!"  answered  Simon. 
"  He'll  be  proud  to  doit.  If  not,  he  never  was  worth 
a  smile  from  your  sweet  mouth." 

"  He'll  be  a  great  man  some  day  !  "  she  laughed, 
with  a  little  quiver  of  the  sweet  mouth. 

"He's  a  good  man  now,  and  I  don't  care," 
answered  the  smith.  "As  long  as  son  of  mine  can 
look  every  man  in  the  face,  I  don't  care  whether  it 
be  great  or  small  he  is." 

"But,  please,  Mr.  Armour,"  said  Bab,  timidly, 
"  wouldn't  it  be  better  still  if  he  could  look  God  in 
the  face  ? " 

"You're  right  there,  my  pretty  dove  !  "  replied  the 
old  man  ;  "only  a  body  can't  say  everything  out  in 
a  breath  !— But  you're  right,  you  are  right !  "  he  went 


MISS    BROWN.  551 

on.  "I  remember  well  the  time  when  I  thought  I 
had  nothing-  to  be  ashamed  of ;  but  the  time  came 
when  I  was  ashamed  of  many  things,  and  I'd  done 
nothing  worse  in  the  meantime  either !  When  a  man 
first  gets  a  peep  inside  himself,  he  sees  things  he 
didn't  look  to  see — and  they  stagger  him  a  bit ! 
Some  horses  have  their  hoofs  so  shrunk  and  cockled 
they  take  the  queerest  shoes  to  set  them  straight ;  an' 
them  shoes  is  the  troubles  o'  this  life,  I  take  it. — 
Now  mind,  I  ain't  told  you  what  college  he's  gone 
to — nor  whether  it  be  at  Oxford  or  at  Cambridge,  or 
away  in  Scotland  or  Germany — and  you  don't  know  ! 
And  if  you  don't  feel  bound  to  mention  the  name  of 
the  place,  I'd  be  obliged  to  you  not  to.  But  1  will 
let  him  know  that  I've  told  you  what  sort  of  a  place 
he's  at,  because  he  couldn't  tell  you  himself,  being 
he's  bound  to  hold  his  tongue." 

Barbara  went  home  happy  :  his  grandfather  recog- 
nized the  bond  between  them  !  As  to  Richard,  she 
had  no  fear  of  his  forgetting  her. 

With  more  energy  still,  she  went  about  her  duties  ; 
and  they  seemed  to  grow  as  she  did  them.  As  the 
end  of  Mark's  sickness  approached,  he  became  more 
and  more  dependent  upon  her,  and  only  his  mother 
could  take  her  place  with  him.  He  loved  his  father 
dearly,  but  his  father  never  staid  m.ore  than  a  moment 
or  two  in  the  sick-chamber.  Mark  at  length  went 
away  to  find  his  twin  ;  and  his  mother  and  Barbara 
wept,  but  not  all  in  sorrow. 

One  morning,  the  week  after  Mark's  death,  Mr. 
Wylder  desired  Barbara  to  go  with  him  to  his  study 
— where  indeed  about  as  much  study  went  on  as  in 
a  squirrel's  nest — and  there,  after  solemn  prologue 
as  to  its  having  been  right  and  natural  while  she  was 


552  THERE    AND    BACK. 

but  a  girl  with  a  brother  that  she  should  be  allowed 
a  great  deal  of  freedom,  stated  that  now,  circum- 
stances being  changed,  such  freedom  could  no  longer 
be  given  her  :  she  was  now  sole  heiress,  and  must 
do  as  an  heir  would  have  had  to  do,  namely,  consult 
the  interests  of  the  family.  In  those  interests,  he 
continued,  it  was  necessary  he  should  strengthen  as 
much  as  possible  his  influence  in  the  county  ;  it  was 
time  also  that,  for  her  own  sake,  she  should  marry  ; 
and  better  husband  or  fitter  son-in-law  than  Mr.  Les- 
trange  could  not  be  desired  :  he  was  both  well- 
behaved  and  good-looking,  and  when  Mortgrange 
was  one  with  Wylder,  would  have  by  far  the  finest 
estate  in  the  county  ! 

Filial  obligation  is  a  point  upon  which  those  par- 
ents lay  the  heaviest  stress  who  have  done  the  least 
to  develop  the  relation  between  them  and  their  chil- 
dren. The  first  duty  is  from  the  parent  to  the  child  : 
this  unfulfilled,  the  duty  of  the  child  remains  un- 
taught. 

"I  am  sorry  to  go  against  you,  papa,"  said  Barbara, 
"  but  I  cannot  marry  Mr.  Lestrange  !  " 

"  Stuff  and  nonsense  !     Why  not?  " 

"  Because  I  do  not  love  him." 

"  Fiddlesticks  !  I  did  not  love  your  mother  when 
I  married  her  ! — You  don't  dislike  him,  I  know  ! — 
Now  don't  tell  me  you  do,  for  I  shall  not  believe 
you  !  " 

"He  is  always  very  kind  to  me,  and  I  am  sorry 
he  should  want  what  is  not  mine  to  give  him." 

"Not  yours  to  give  him  !  What  do  you  mean  by 
that.!*  If  it  is  not  yours,  it  is  mine!  Have  you  not 
learned  yet,   that  when   I.  make  up  my  mind  to  a 


MISS    BROWN.  553 


thing,  that  thing  is  done  ?  And  where  I  have  a  right, 
I  am  not  one  to  waive  it  1 " 

Where  husband  and  wife  are  not  one,  it  is  impos- 
sible for  the  daughter  to  be  one  with  both,  or  perhaps 
with  either ;  and  the  constant  and  foolish  bickering 
to  which  Barbara  had  been  a  witness  throughout  her 
childhood  had  tended  rather  to  poison  than  nourish 
respect.  Whether  Barbara  failed  to  yield  as  much 
as  Mr.  Wylder  had  a  right  to  claim,  I  leave  to  the 
judgment  of  my  reader,  reserving  my  own,  and  re- 
marking only  that,  if  his  judgment  be  founded  on 
principles  differing  from  mine,  our  judgments  cannot 
agree.  The  idea  of  parent  must  be  venerated,  and 
may  cast  a  glow  upon  the  actual  parent,  himself 
nowise  venerable,  so  that  the  heart  of  a  daughter 
may  ache  with  the  longing  to  see  her  father  such  that 
she  could  love  and  worship  him  as  she  would  ;  but 
when  it  comes  to  life  and  action,  the  will  of  such  a 
parent,  if  it  diverge  from  what  seems  to  the  child 
true  and  right,  ought  to  weigh  nothing.  A  parent  is 
not  a  maker,  is  not  God.  We  must  leave  father  and 
mother  and  all  for  God,  that  is,  for  what  is  right, 
which  is  his  very  will — only  let  us  be  sure  it  is  for 
God,  and  not  for  self.  If  the  parent  has  been  the 
parent  of  good  thoughts  and  right  judgments  in  the 
child,  those  good  thoughts  and  right  judgments  will 
be  on  the  parent's  side  ;  if  he  has  been  the  parent  of 
evil  thoughts  and  false  judgments,  they  may  be  for 
him  or  against  him,  but  in  the  end  they  will  work 
solely  for  division.  Any  general  decay  of  filial  man- 
ners must  originate  with  the  parents. 

"  I  am  not  a  child,  I  am  a  woman,"  said  Barbara  ; 
"  and  I  owe  it  to  him  who  made  me  a  woman  to  take 
care  of  her." 


554 


THERE    AND    BACK. 


"  Mind  what  you  say.  I  have  rights,  and  will  en- 
force them." 

"Over  my  person?  "  returned  Barbara,  her  eyes 
sending  out  a  flash  that  reminded  him  of  her  mother, 
and  made  him  the  angrier. 

"If  you  do  not  consent  here  and  now,"  he  said, 
sternly,  ' '  to  marry  Mr.  Lestrange — that  is,  if,  after 
your  mother's  insolence  to  Lady  Ann, " 

"  My  mother's  insolence  to  Lady  Ann  !  "  exclaimed 
Barbara,  drawing  herself,  in  her  indignation,  to  the 
height  of  her  small  person  ;  but  her  father  would  rush 
to  his  own  discomfiture. 

<' — if^  as  I  say,"  he  went  on,  "he  should  now  con- 
descend to  ask  you — I  swear -" 

"You  had  better  not  swear,  papa  !  " 

" — I  swear  you  shall  not  have  a  foot  of  my  land." 

"  Oh  !  that  is  all  ?  There  you  are  in  your  right,  and 
I  have  nothing  to  say." 

"You  insolent  hussy!  You  won't  like  it  when 
you  find  it  done  !  " 

"  It  will  be  the  same  as  if  Mark  had  lived." 

"It's  that  cursed  money  of  your  mother's  makes 
you  impudent !  " 

"If  you  could  leave  me  moneyless,  papa,  it  would 
make  no  difference.  A  woman  that  can  shoe  her 
own  horse, " 

"Shoe  her  own  horse  !  "  cried  her  father. 

"Yes,  papa  ! — You  couldn't ! — And  I  made  two  of 
her  shoes  the  last  time  I  Wouldn't  any  woman  that 
can  do  that,  wouldn't  she — to  save  herself  from  shame 
and  disgust — to  be  queen  over  herself — wouldn't  she 
take  a  place  as  house-maid  or  shop-girl  rather  than 
marry  the  man  she  didn't  love  ?  " 

Mr.  Wylder  saw  he  had  gone  too  far. 


MISS    BROWN.  555 


"  You  know  more  than  is  good  !  "  he  said.  "But 
don't  you  mistake  :  your  mother's  money  is  settled 
on  you,  but  your  father  is  your  trustee  !  " 

"My  father  is  a  gentleman  !  "  rejoined  Barbara — not 
so  near  the  truth  as  she  believed. 

"  Take  you  care  how  yo«i  push  a  gentleman," 
rejoined  her  father. 

"Not  to  love  is  not  to  marry — not  if  the  man  was 
a  prince  !  "  persisted  Barbara. 

She  went  to  her  mother's  room,  but  said  nothing 
of  what  had  passed.  She  would  not  heat  those  ovens 
of  wrath,  the  bosoms  of  her  parents. 

The  next  morning  she  ran  to  saddle  Miss  Brown. 
To  her  astonishment,  her  friend  was  not  in  her  box, 
nor  in  any  stall  in  the  stable;  neither  was  any  one 
visible  of  whom  to  ask  what  had  become  of  her :  for 
the  first  time  in  her  life,  everybody  had  got  out  of 
Barbara's  way.  In  the  harness-room,  however,  she 
came  upon  one  of  the  stable-boys.  He  was  in  tears. 
When  he  saw  her,  he  started  and  turned  to  run,  look- 
ing as  if  he  had  had  a  piece  of  Miss  Brown  for  break- 
fast, but  she  stopped  him. 

"Where  is  Miss  Brown.?"  she  said. 

"Don' know,  miss." 

"  Who  knows  then  ?  " 

"  P'r'aps  master,  miss." 

"  What  are  you  crying  for.?  " 

"Don'  know,  miss." 

' '  That's  not  true.  Boys  don't  cry  without  knowing 
why  !  " 

"Well,  miss,  I  ain't  sure  what  I'm  cryin'  for." 

"Speak  out,  man  I     Don't  be  foolish." 

"  Master  give  me  a  terrible  cut,  miss  !  " 

"  Did  you  deserve  it.'  " 


556  THERE   AND    BACK. 


"Don'  know,  miss." 

"  You  don't  seem  to  know  anything  this  morning  !  " 

"  No,  miss  !  " 

"What  did  your  master  give  you  the  cut  for?" 

"'Cause  I  was  cry  in'." 

Here  he  burst  into  a  restrained  howl. 

"What  were  you  crying  for.?" 

"Because  Miss  Brown  was  gone." 

"And  you  cried  without  knowing  where  she  was 
gone  .?  "  said  Barbara,  turning  almost  sick  with  appre- 
hension. 

"Yes,  miss,"  affirmed  the  miserable  boy. 

"  Is  she  dead  ?  " 

"  No,  miss,  she  ain't  dead  ;  she's  sold  !  " 

The  words  were  not  yet  out  of  his  mouth  when  he 
turned  and  bolted. 

"That's  my  gentleman-papa!"  said  Barbara  to 
herself  before  she  could  help  it.  Had  she  been  any 
girl  but  Barbara,  she  would  have  cried  like  the  boy. 

Not  once  from  that  moment  did  she  allude  to  Miss 
Brown  in  the  hearing  of  father  or  servant. 

One  day  her  mother  asked  her  why  she  never  rode, 
and  she  told  her.  The  wrath  of  the  mother  was  like 
that  of  a  tigress.  She  sprang  to  her  feet,  and  bounded 
to  the  door.  But  when  she  reached  it,  Barbara  was 
between  her  and  the  handle. 

"  Mother  !  mother  dear  !  "  she  pleaded. 

The  mother  took  her  by  the  shoulders,  and  thought 
to  fling  her  across  the  room.  But  she  was  not  so 
strong  as  she  had  been,  and  she  found  the  little  one 
hard  as  nails  :  she  could  not  move  her  an  inch. 

"Get  out  of  my  way  I"  she  cried.  "I  want  to 
kill  him  !  " 


MISS   BROWN.  557 


"  Mammy  dear,  listen  !  It's  a  month  ag-o  !  I  said 
nothing — for  love-sake  !  " 

"  Love-sake  !  I  think  I  hear  you  1  Dare  to  tell 
me  you  love  that  wretch  of  a  father  of  yours  !  I  will 
kiWjyou  if  you  say  you  love  him  !  " 

Barbara  threw  her  arms  round  her  mother's  neck, 
and  said  : 

"Listen,  mammy:  I  do  love  him  a  little  bit;  but 
it  wasn't  for  love  of  him  I  held  my  tongue." 

"Bah!  Your  bookbinder-fellow  !  'What  has  he 
to  do  with  it  ?  " 

"Nothing  at  all.  It  wasn't  for  him  either.  It  was 
for  God's  sake  I  held  my  peace,  mammy.  If  a// his 
children  quarrelled  like  you  and  dad,  what  a  house 
he  would  have  !  It  was  for  God's  sake  I  said  nothing  ; 
and  you  know,  mammy,  you've  made  it  up  with 
God,  and  you  mustn't  go  and  be  naughty  again  !  " 

The  mother  stood  silent  and  still.  It  seemed  for 
an  instant  as  if  the  old  fever  had  come  back,  for  she 
shivered.  She  turned  and  went  to  her  chair,  sat 
down,  and  again  was  still.  A  minute  after,  her  fore- 
head flushed  like  a  flame,  turned  white,  then  flushed 
and  paled  again  several  times.  Then  she  gave  a 
great  sigh,  and  the  conflict  was  over.  She  smiled, 
and  from  that  moment  she  also  never  said  a  word 
about  Miss  Brown. 

But  in  the  silence  of  her  thought,  Barbara  suffered, 
for  what  might  not  be  the  fate  of  Miss  Brown  !  No 
one  but  a  genuine  lover  of  animals  could  believe  how 
she  suffered.  In  her  mind's  eye  she  kept  seeing  her 
turn  her  head  with  sharp-curved  neck  in  her  stall,  or 
shoot  it  over  the  door  of  her  box,  looking  and  long- 
ing for  her  mistress,  and  wondering  why  she  did  not 
come   to  pat  her,  or  feed  her,  or  saddle  her  for  the 


558  THERE    AND    BACK. 


joyous  gallop  across  grass  and  green  hedge  ;  and  the 
heart  of  her  mistress  was  sore  for  her.  But  at  length 
one  day  in  church,  they  read  the  psalm  in  which 
come  the  words,  "Thou,  Lord,  shalt  save  both  man 
and  beast!"  and  they  went  to  her  soul.  She  reflected 
that  if  Miss  Brown  was  in  trouble,  it  might  be  for  the 
saving  of  Miss  Brown  :  she  had  herself  got  enough 
good  from  trouble  to  hope  for  that !  For  she  heartily 
believed  the  animals  partakers  in  the  redemption  of 
Jesus  Christ ;  and  she  fancied  perhaps  they  knew 
more  about  it  than  we  think, — the  poor  things  are  so 
silent!  Anyhow  she  saw  that  the  reasonable  thing 
was  to  let  God  look  after  his  own  ;  and  if  Miss  Brown 
w^as  not  his,  how  could  she  be  P 

But  the  mother  was  sending  all  over  the  country  to 
find  who  had  Miss  Brown  ;  and  she  had  not  inquired 
long,  before  she  learned  that  she  was  in  the  stables 
at  Mortgrange.  There  she  knew  she  would  be  well 
treated,  and  therefore  told  Barbara  the  result  of  her 
inquiries. 


CHAPTER    LVI. 


WINGFOLD    AND    BARBARA. 


Barbara  went  yet  oftener  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wing- 
fold.  By  this  time,  through  Simon  Armour,  they 
knew  something  about  Richard,  but  none  of  them 
all  felt  at  liberty  to  talk  about  him. 

Barbara  had  now  a  better  guide  in  her  reading 
than  Richard.  True  reader  as  he  had  been,  Wing- 
fold's  acquaintance  both  with  literature  and  its 
history,  that  is,  its  relation  to  the  development  of 
the  people,  was  as  much  beyond  the  younger  man's 
as  it  ought  to  be.  What  in  Barbara  Richard  had 
begun  well,  Wingfold  was  carrying  on  better. 

With  his  help  she  was  now  studying,, to  no  little 
advantage,  more  than  one  subject  connected  with 
the  main  interest  common  to  her  and  Richard  ;  and 
she  thought  constantly  of  what  Richard  would  say, 
and  how  she  would  answer  him.  Hence,  naturally, 
she  had  the  more  questions  to  put  to  her  tutor. 
Now  Wingfold  had  passed  through  all  Richard's 
phases,  and  through  some  that  were  only  now 
beginning  to  show  in  him  ;  therefore  he  was  well 
prepared  to  help  her — although  there  was  this 
difference  between  the  early  moral  conditions  of  the 
two  men,  that  Wingfold  had  been  prejudiced  in  favor 
of  much  that  he  found  it  impossible  to  hold,  whereas 
Richard  had  been  prejudiced  against  much  that 
ought  to  be  cast  away. 

Richard  suffered    not  a   little   at   times  from   his 


560  THERE    AND    BACK. 


enforced  silence  :  what  might  not  happen  because 
he  must  not  speak  ?  But  hearing  nothing  discour- 
aging from  his  grandfather,  he  comforted  himself  in 
hope.  He  knew  that  in  him  he  had  a  strong  ally, 
and  that  Barbara  loved  the  hot-hearted  blacksmith, 
recognizing  in  him  a  more  genuine  breeding,  as  well 
as  a  far  greater  capacity,  than  in  either  Sir  Wilton  or 
her  father.  He  toiled  on,  doing  his  duty,  and  receiv- 
ing in  himself  the  reward  of  the  same,  with  further 
reward  ever  at  the  door.  For  there  is  no  juster  law 
than  the  word,  "To  him  that  hath  shall  be  given." 

"Why  do  I  never  see  you  on  Miss  Brown?" 
asked  Wingfold  one  day  of  Barbara. 

"For  a  reason  I  think  I  ought  not  to  tell  you." 

"  Then  don't  tell  me,"  returned  the  parson. 

But  by  a  mixture  of  instinctive  induction  and 
involuntary  intuition,  he  saw  into  the  piece  of 
domestic  tyranny,  and  did  what  he  could  to  make 
up  for  it,  by  taking  her  every  now  and  then  a  long 
walk  or  drive  with  his  wife  and  their  little  boy.  He 
gave  her  strong,  hopeful  things  to  read — and  in  the 
search  after  such  was  driven  to  remark  how  little 
of  the  hopeful  there  is  in  the  English,  or  in  any  other 
language.  The  song  of  hope  is  indeed  written  in 
men's  hearts,  but  few  sing  it.  Yet  it  is  of  all  songs 
the  sorest-needed  of  struggling  men. 

Heart  and  brain,  Wingfold  was  full  of  both  humor 
and  pathos.  In  their  walks  and  drives,  many  a 
serious  subject  would  give  occasion  to  the  former, 
and  many  a  merry  one  to  the  latter.  Sometimes  he 
would  take  a  nursery-rhyme  for  his  theme,  and  ex- 
patiate upon  it  so,  that  at  one  instant  Barbara  would 
burst  into  the  gayest  laughter,  and  the  next  have  to 
restrain  her  tears.     Rarely  would  Wingfold  enter  a 


WINGFOLD  AND  BARBARA.  56 1 

sick  chamber,  especially  that  of  a  cottage,  with  a 
long  face  and  a  sermon  in  his  soul ;  almost  always 
he  walked  lightly  in,  with  a  cheerful  look,  and  not 
seldom  an  odd  story  on  his  tongue,  well  pleased 
when  he  could  make  the  sufferer  laugh — better 
pleased  sometimes  when  he  had  made  him  sorry. 
He  did  not  find  those  that  laughed  the  readiest  the 
hardest  to  make  sorry.  He  moved  his  people  by 
infecting  their  hearts  with  the  feeling  in  his  own. 

Having  now  for  many  years  cared  only  for  the 
will  of  God,  he  was  full  of  joy.  For  the  will  of  the 
Father  is  the  root  of  all  his  children's  gladness,  of  all 
their  laughter  and  merriment.  The  child  that  loves 
the  will  of  the  Father  is  at  the  heart  of  things  ;  his 
will  is  with  the  motion  of  the  eternal  wheels  ;  the 
eyes  of  all  those  wheels  are  opened  upon  him,  and 
he  knows  whence  he  came.  Happy  and  fearless  and 
hopeful,  he  knows  himself  the  child  of  him  from 
whom  he  came,  and  his  peace  and  joy  break  out  in 
light.  He  rises  and  shines.  Bliss  creative  and 
energic  there  is  none  other,  on  earth  or  in  heaven, 
than  the  will  of  the  Father. 
36 


CHAPTER  LVII. 

THE    baronet's     WILL. 

Arthur  Lestrange  was  sharply  troubled  when  he 
found  he  was  to  see  no  more  of  Barbara.  He  went 
again  and  again  to  Wylder  Hall,  but  neither  mother 
nor  daughter  would  receive  him.  When  he  learned 
that  Miss  Brown  was  for  sale,  he  bought  her  for  love 
of  her  mistress.  All  the  explanation  he  could  get 
from  Lady  Ann  was,  that  the  young  woman's  mother 
was  impossible  ;  she  was  more  than  half  a  savage. 

Time's  wheels  went  slow  thereafter  at  Mortgrange. 
Sir  Wilton  missed  his  first-born.  Whatever  annoyed 
him  in  his  wife  or  any  of  her  children  fed  the  desire 
for  Richard.  Arthur  did  not  please  him.  He  had  no 
way  distinguished  himself — and  some  men  are  an- 
noyed when  their  sons  prove  only  a  little  better  than 
themselves.  Percy  was  a  poisoned  thorn  in  his 
side  :  he  was  even  worse  than  his  father.  All  his 
thoughts  took  refuge  in  Richard. 

He  had  become  dissatisfied  with  his  agent,  and 
although  he  had  never  taken  an  interest  in  business, 
distrust  made  him  now  look  into  things  a  little.  He 
called  his  lawyer  from  London,  and  had  him  make 
a  thorough  investigation.  Dismissing  thereupon  his 
agent,  he  would  have  Arthur  take  charge  of  the 
estate  ;  but  the  young  man,  with  an  inborn  dislike 
to  figures,  flatly  refused,  saying  he  preferred  the 
army.  Sir  Wilton  did  not  like  the  army  :  he  had 
been  in  it  himself,  and  had  left  it  in  a  hurry — no  one 
ever  knew  why. 


THE    BARONETS    WILL  563 

The  only  comfort  in  the  house  occupied  the  soul 
of  Lady  Ann  :  it  was  that  she  heard  nothing  of  the 
bookbinder  fellow  !  She  had  grown  so  torpid,  that 
while  Danger  was  not  flattening  his  nose  against  the 
window-pane,  she  was  at  peace.  For  the  rest,  a 
lawyer  of  her  own  had  the  will  in  his  keeping,  and 
she  had  come  upon  no  trace  of  another. 

But  when  Sir  Wilton  sent  for  his  lawyer  to  look 
into  his  factor's  accounts,  he  had  a  further  use  for 
him,  of  which  his  wife  heard  nothing  :  he  made  him 
draw  up  another  will,  in  which  he  left  everything  to 
Richard,  only  son  of  his  first  wife,  Robina  Armour. 
With  every  precaution  for  secrecy,  the  will  was 
signed  and  witnessed,  but  when  the  lawyer  would 
have  carried  it  with  him,  the  baronet  declined  to  give 
it  up.  He  laid  it  aside  for  a  week,  then  had  the 
horses  put  to,  and  drove  to  find  Mr.  Wingfold,  of 
whom  he  had  heard  from  Richard.  When  he  saw 
him,  man  of  the  world  as  he  was,  he  was  impressed 
by  the  simplicity  of  a  clergyman  without  a  touch  of 
the  clerical,  without  any  look  of  what  he  called 
sanctity — the  look  that  comes  upon  a  man  cherishing 
the  notion  that  he  is  intrusted  with  things  more  sacred 
than  God  will  put  in  the  hands  of  his  other  children. 
Such  men,  and  they  are  many,  one  would  like  to  lay 
for  a  time  in  the  sheet  of  Peter's  vision,  among  the 
four-footed  animals  and  creeping  things,  to  learn 
that,  as  there  is  nothing  common  or  unclean,  so  is 
there  no  class  more  sacred  than  another.  Never  will  . 
it  be  right  with  men,  until  every  commonest  meal  is 
a  glad  recognition  of  the  living  Saviour  who  gives 
himself,  always  and  perfectly,  to  his  brothers  and 
sisters. 

The  baronet  begged  a  private  interview,  and  told 


564  THERE    AND    BACK. 

the  parson  he  wanted  to  place  in  his  keeping  a  certain 
paper,  with  the  understanding  that  he  would  not 
open  it  for  a  year  after  his  death,  and  would  then  act 
upon  the  directions  contained  in  it. 

"Provided  always,"  Wingfold  stipulated,  "that 
they  require  of  me  nothing  unfit,  impossible  or 
wrong." 

"  I  pledge  myself  they  require  nothing  unworthy 
of  the  cloth,"  said  Sir  Wilton. 

"The  cloth  be  hanged!"  said  Wingfold.  "  Do 
they  require  anything  unworthy  of  a  man — or  if  you 
think  the  word  means  more — of  a  gentleman  ?  " 

"They  do  not,"  answered  the  baronet. 

"Then  you  must  write  another  paper,  stating  that 
you  have  asked  me  to  undertake  this,  but  that  you 
have  given  me  no  hint  of  the  contents  of  the  accom- 
panying document.  This  second  you  must  enclose 
with  the  first,  sealing  the  envelope  with  your  own 
seal." 

Sir  Wilton  at  once  consented,  and  there  and  then 
did  as  Wingfold  desired. 

"  I've  checkmated  my  lady  at  last  1  "  he  chuckled, 
as  he  drove  home.  "  She  would  have  me  the  villain 
to  disinherit  my  first-born  for  her  miserable  brood  I 
She  shall  find  my  other  will,  and  think  she's  safe  ! 
Then  the  thunderbolt — and  Dick  master  !  My  lady's 
dower  won't  be  much  for  Percy  the  cad  and  Arthur 
the  proper,  not  to  mention  Dorothy  the  cow  and 
Vixen  the  rat  !  " 

He  always  spoke  as  if  Lady  Ann's  children  were 
none  of  his.  Her  ladyship  had  taught  him  to  do  so, 
for  she  always  said,   "  Aly  children  !  " 

That  night  he  slept  with  an  easier  mind.  He  had 
put  the  deed  off  and  off,  regarding  it  as  his  abdica- 


THE    baronet's    WILL  565 

tion  ;  but  now  it  was  done  he  felt  more  comfortable. 

Wingfold  suspected  in  the  paper  some  provision 
for  Richard,  but  could  imagine  no  reason  for  letting 
it  lie  unopened  until  a  year  should  have  passed  from 
the  baronet's  death.  Troubling  himself  nothing,  how- 
ever, about  what  was  not  his  business,  he  put  the 
paper  carefully  aside — but  where  he  must  see  it  now 
and  then,  lest  it  should  pass  from  his  mind,  and,  with 
Sir  Wilton's  permission,  told  his  wife  what  he  had 
undertaken  concerning  it,  that  she  might  carry  it  out 
if  he  were  prevented  from  doing  so. 

Time  went  on.  Communication  grew  yet  less  be- 
tween Mr.  Wylder  and  his  family.  He  had  returned 
to  certain  old  habits,  and  was  spending  money  pretty 
fast  in  London.  Failing  to  make  himself  a  god  in 
the  house,  he  forsook  it,  and  was  rapidly  losing  this 
world's  chance  of  appreciating  a  woman  whose 
faults  were  to  his  as  new  wine  to  dirty  water. 

In  the  fourth  year,  Richard  wrote  to  his  father, 
through  his  grandfather  of  course,  informing  him  he 
had  got  his  B.  A.  degree,  and  was  waiting  further 
orders.  The  baronet  was  heartily  pleased  with  the 
style  of  his  letter,  and  in  the  privacy  of  his  own  room 
gave  way  to  his  delight  at  the  thought  of  his  wife's 
apprbaching  consternation  and  chagrin.  At  the 
same  time,  however,  he  was  not  a  little  uneasy  in 
prospect  of  the  denouement.  For  the  eyes  of  his 
wife  had  become  almost  a  terror  to  him.  Their  gray 
ice,  which  had  not  grown  clearer  as  it  grew  older, 
made  him  shiver.  Why  should  the  stronger  so  often 
be  afraid  of  the  weaker .?  Sometimes,  I  suppose, 
because  conscience  happens  to  side  with  the  weaker  ; 
sometimes  only  because  the  weaker  is  yet  able  to 
make  the  stronger,   especially  if  he  be  lazy   and  a 


566  THERE    AND    BACK. 

lover  of  what  he  calls  peace,  worse  than  uncomfort- 
able. The  baronet  dared  not  present  his  son  to  his 
wife  except  in  the  presence  of  at  least  one  stranger. 

He    wrote  to  Richard,   appointing   a  day  for  his 
appearance  at  Mortgrange. 


CHAPTER  LVIII. 


It  was  a  lovely  morning-  when  Richard,  his  heart 
beating  with  a  hope  whose  intensity  of  bliss  he  had 
never  imagined,  stopped  at  the  station  nearest  to 
Mortgrange,  and  set  out  to  walk  there  in  the  after- 
noon sun.  June  folded  him  in  her  loveliness  of 
warmth  and  color.  The  grass  was  washed  with 
transparent  gold  :  he  saw  both  the  gold  and  the  green 
together,  but  unmingled.  Often  had  he  walked  the 
same  road,  a  contented  tradesman  ;  a  gentleman 
now,  with  a  baronet  to  his  father,  beloved,  and  knew 
he  must  always  love  the  tradesman-uncle  more  than 
the  baronet-father.  He  was  much  more  than  grate- 
ful to  his  father  for  his  ready  reception  of  him,  and 
his  care  of  his  education  ;  but  he  could  not  be  proud 
of  him  as  of  his  mother  and  his  aunt  and  uncle  and 
his  grandfather.  He  held  it  one  of  God's  greatest 
gifts  to  come  of  decent  people  ;  and  if  in  his  case  the 
decency  was  on  one  side  only,  it  was  the  more  his 
part  to  stop  the  current  of  transmitted  evil,  and  in 
his  own  person  do  what  he  might  to  annihilate  it ! 

His  only  anxiety  was  lest  his  father  should  again 
lay  upon  him  the  command  to  cease  communication 
with  his  brother  and  sister.  He  lifted  up  his  heart  to 
God,  and  vowed  that  not  for  anything  the  earth 
could  give  would  he  obey.  The  socialism  he  had 
learned  from  his  uncle  had  undergone  a  baptism  to 
something  infinitely  higher.      He  prayed  God  to  keep 


568  THERE    AND    BACK. 


him  clean  of  heart,  and  able  to  hold  by  his  duty. 
He  promised  God — it  was  a  way  he  had  when  he 
would  bind  himself  to  do  right — that  he  would  not 
forsake  his  own,  would  not  break  the  ties  of  blood 
for  any  law,  custom,  prejudice,  or  pride  of  man. 
The  vow  made  his  heart  strong  and  light.  But  he 
felt  there  was  little  merit  in  the  act,  seeing  he  could 
live  without  his  father's  favor.  He  saw  how  much 
harder  it  would  be  for  a  poor  tradeless  man  like 
Arthur  Lestrange  to  make  such  a  resolve.  In  the 
face  of  such  a  threat  from  his  father  what  could  he 
do  ? — where  find  courage  to  resist  ?  Resist  he  must 
or  be  a  slave,  but  hard  indeed  it  would  be  !  Every 
father,  thought  Richard,  who  loved  his  children,  ought 
to  make  them  independent  of  himself,  that  neither 
clog,  nor  net,  nor  hindrance  of  any  kind  might  ham- 
per the  true  working  of  their  consciences  :  then  would 
the  service  they  rendered  their  parents  be  precious 
indeed  !  then  indeed  would  love  be  lord,  and  neither 
self,  nor  the  fear  of  man,  nor  the  fear  of  fate  be  a  law 
in  their  life  ! 

He  had  not  sent  word  to  his  grandfather  that  he 
was  coming,  and  had  told  his  father  that  he  would 
walk  from  the  station — which  suited  Sir  Wilton,  for 
he  felt  nervous,  and  was  anxious  there  should  be  no 
stir.  So  Richard  came  to  Mortgrangeas  quietly  as  a 
star  to  its  place. 

When  he  reached  the  gate  and  walked  in  as  of  old, 
he  was  challenged  by  the  woman  who  kept  it :  of  all 
the  servants  she  and  Lady  Ann's  maid  had  alone 
treated  him  with  rudeness,  and  now  she  was  not  polite 
although  she  did  not  know  him.  Neither  was  he 
recognized  by  the  man  who  opened  the  door. 

Sir  Wilton  sat  in  the  library  expecting  him.      A 


569 


gentleman  was  with  him,  but  he  kept  in  the  back- 
ground, seemingly  absorbed  in  the  titles  of  a  row  of 
books. 

"There  you  are,  you  rascal  !  "  his  father  was  on 
the  point  of  saying  as  Richard  came  into  the  light  of 
the  one  big  bow-window,  but,  instead,  he  gazed  at 
him  for  an  instant  in  silence.  Before  him  was  one 
of  the  handsomest  fellows  his  eyes  had  ever  rested 
upon — broad-shouldered  and  tall  and  straight,  with  a 
thoughtful  yet  keen  face,  of  which  every  feature  was 
both  fine  and  solid,  and  dark  brown  hair  with  night 
and  firelight  ni  it,  and  a  touch  of  the  sun  here  and 
there  at  moments.  The  situation  might  have  been 
embarrassing  to  a  more  experienced  man  than  Rich- 
ard as  he  waited  for  his  father  to  speak  ;  but  he  stood 
quite  at  his  ease,  slightly  bent,  and  motionless,  neither 
hands  nor  feet  giving  him  any  of  the  trouble  so  often 
caused  by  those  outlying  provinces.  The  slight  color 
that  rose  in  his  rather  thin  cheeks,  only  softened  the 
beauty  of  a  face  whose  outline  was  severe.  He  stood 
like  a  soldier  waiting  the  word  of  his  officer. 

"By  Jove  !  "  said  his  father  ;  and  there  was  another 
pause. 

The  baronet  was  momently  growing  prouder  of 
his  son.  He  had  never  had  a  feeling  like  it  before. 
He  saw  his  mother  in  him. 

"She's  looking  at  me  straight  out  of  his  eyes  !  "  he 
said  to  himself. 

"Ain't  you  going  to  sit  down  ?  "  he  said  to  him  at 
last,  forgetting  that  he  had  neither  shaken  hands  with 
him,  nor  spoken  a  word  of  welcome. 

Richard  moved  a  chair  a  little  nearer  and  sat  down, 
wondering  what  would  come  next. 

"Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do  ?  "  asked  his  father. 


570  THERE    AND    BACK. 


"I  must  first  know  your  wish,  sir,"  he  answered. 

"  Church  won't  do  ?  " 

"  No,  sir." 

"  Glad  to  hear  it  !  You're  much  too  good  for  the 
church  ! — No  offence,  Mr.  Wingfold  !  The  same 
appUes  to  yourself." 

"So  my  uncle  on  the  stock-exchange  used  to  say  !  " 
answered  Wingfold,  laughing,  as  he  turned  to  the 
baronet.  "  He  thought  me  good  enough,  I  suppose, 
for  a  priest  of  Mammon  !  " 

' '  I'm  glad  you're  not  offended.  What  do  you  think 
of  that  son  of  mine  ?  " 

"I  have  long  thought  well  of  him." 

At  the  first  sound  of  his  voice,  Richard  had  risen, 
and  now  approached  him,  his  hand  outstretched. 

"Mr.  Wingfold  !  "  he  said,  joyfully. 

"I  remember  now  !  "  returned  Sir  Wilton  ;  "  it  was 
from  him  I  heard  of  you  ;  and  that  was  what  made 
me  seek  your  acquaintance. — He  promises  fairly, 
don't  you  think  ? — Shoulders  good  ;  head  well  set 
on  I  " 

"  He  looks  a  powerful  man  !  "  said  Wingfold. 
" — We  shall  be  happy  to  see  you,  Mr.  Lestrange,  as 
soon  as  you  care  to  come  to  us." 

"That  will  be  to-morrow,  I  hope,  sir,"  answered 
Richard. 

' '  Stop,  stop  !  "  cried  Sir  Wilton.  ' '  We  know  noth- 
ing for  certain  yet ! — By-the-bye,  if  your  stepmother 
don't  make  you  particularly  welcome,  you  needn't 
be  surprised,  my  boy  !  " 

"Certainly  not.  I  could  hardly  expect  her  to  be 
pleased,  sir  !  " 

"  Not  pleased  ?  Not  pleased  at  what .''  Now,  now, 
don't  you  presume  !    Don't  you  take  things  for  granted .' 


THE    HEIR.  571 

How  do  you  know  she  will  have  reason  to  be  dis- 
pleased ?  I  never  promised  you  anything  !  I  never 
told  you  what  I  intended  ! — Did  I  ever  now  ?  " 

"No,  sir.  You  have  already  done  far  more  than 
ever  you  promised.  You  have  given  me  all  any  man 
has  a  right  to  from  his  father.  I  am  ready  to  go  to 
London  at  once,  and  make  my  own  living." 

"How?" 

"I  don't  know  yet ;  I  should  have  to  choose— 
thanks  to  you  and  my  uncle  !  " 

"  In  the  meantime,  you  must  be  introduced  to  your 
stepmother." 

"Then — excuse  me.  Sir  Wilton — "  interposed  the 
parson,  "do  you  wish  me  to  regard  my  old  friend 
Richard  as  your  son  and  heir.?" 

"As  my  son,  yes;  as  my  heir — that  will  de- 
pend  •" 

"On  his  behavior,  I  presume  !  "  Wingfold  ventured. 

"  I  say  nothing  of  the  sort !  "  replied  the  baronet, 
testily.  ' '  Would  you  have  me  doubt  whether  he  will 
carry  himself  like  a  gentleman  .?  The  thing  depends 
on  my  pleasure.     There  are  others  besides  him." 

He  rose  to  ring  the  bell.  Richard  started  up  to 
forestall  his  intent. 

"Now,  Richard,"  said  his  father,  turning  sharp 
upon  him,  "  don't  be  officious.  Nothing  shows  want 
of  breeding  more  than  to  do  a  thing  for  a  man  in  his 
own  house.     It  is  a  cursed  liberty  !  " 

"I  will  try  to  remember,  sir,"  answered  Richard. 

"  Do  ;  we  shall  get  on  the  better." 

He  was  seized,  as  by  the  claw  of  a  crab,  with  a 
sharp  twinge  of  the  gout.  He  caught  at  the  back  of 
a  chair,  hobbled  with  its  help  to  the  table,  and  so  to 
his  scat.     Richard  restrained  himself  and  stood  ri<rid. 


572 


THERE    AND    BACK. 


The  baronet  turned  a  half  humorous,  half  reproachful 
look  on  him. 

"That's  right!"  he  said.  "Never  be  officious. 
I  wish  my  father  had  taught  me  as  I  am  teaching 
you  !— Ever  had  the  gout,  Mr.  Wingfold  ?  " 

"Never,  Sir  Wilton." 

"Then  you  ought  every  Sunday  to  say,  'Thank 
God  that  I  have  no  gout !  ' " 

"But  if  we  thanked  God  for  all  tlie  ills  we  don't 
have,  there  would  be  no  time  to  thank  him  for  any 
of  the  blessings  we  do  have  !  " 

"What  blessings.? " 

"So  many,  I  don't  know  where  to  begin  to  answer 
you. " 

"Ah,  yes!  you're  a  clergyman!  I  forgot.  It's 
your  business  to  thank  God.  For  my  part,  being  a 
layman,  I  don't  know  anything  in  particular  I've  got 
to  thank  him  for." 

"If  I  thought  a  layman  had  less  to  thank  God  for 
than  a  clergyman,  I  should  begin  to  doubt  whether 
either  had  anything  to  thank  him  for.  Why,  Sir  Wil- 
ton, I  find  everything  a  blessing  !  I  thank  God  I  am 
a  poor  man.  I  thank  him  for  every  good  book  I  fall 
in  with.  I  thank  him  when  a  child  smiles  to  me.  I 
thank  him  when  the  sun  rises  or  the  wind  blows  on 
me.  Every  day  I  am  so  happy,  or  at  least  so  peace- 
ful, or  at  the  worst  so  hopeful,  that  my  very  con- 
sciousness is  a  thanksgiving." 

"  Do  you  thank  him  for  your  wife,  Mr.  Wingfold  ? " 

"Every  day  of  my  existence." 

The  baronet  stared  at  him  a  moment,  then  turned 
to  his  son. 

"Richard,"  he  said,  "you  had  better  make  up 
your  mind  to  go  into   the  church  !     You  hear  Mr. 


THE    HEIR.  573 

Wing-fold  !     I  shouldn't  like  it  myself;  I  should  have 
to  be  at  my  prayers  all  day  !  " 

"  Ah,  Sir  Wilton,  it  doesn't  take  time  to  thank  God  ! 
It  only  takes  eternity." 

Sir  Wilton  stared.      He  did  not  understand. 

"  Ring  the  bell,  will  you  ?  "  he  said.  "  The  fellow- 
seems  to  have  gone  to  sleep." 

Richard  obeyed,  and  not  a  word  was  spoken  until 
the  man  appeared. 

**  Wilkins,"  said  his  master,  "goto  my  lady,  and 
say  I  beg  the  favor  of  her  presence  in  the  library  for 
a  moment." 

The  man  went. 

"  No  antipathy  to  cats,  I  hope  !  "  he  added,  turning 
to  Richard. 

"None,  sir,"  answered  Richard,  gravely. 

"  That's  good  !     Then  you  won't  be  taken  aback  !  " 

In  a  few  minutes — she  seldom  made  her  husband 
■wait — Lady  Ann  sailed  into  the  room,  the  servant 
closing  the  door  so  deftly  behind  her,  that  it  seemed 
without  moving  to  have  given  passage  to  an  angelic 
presence. 

The  two  younger  men  rose. 

"Mr.  Wingfold  you  know,  my  lady!"  said  her 
husband. 

"I  have  not  the  pleasure,"  answered  Lady  Ann, 
with  a  slight  motion  of  the  hard  bud  at  the  top  other 
loiig  stalk. 

"Ah,  I  thought  you  did !— The  Reverend  Mr. 
Wingfold,  Lady  Ann  ! — My  wife,  Mr.  Wingfold  ! — 
The  other  gentleman.  Lady  Ann, " 

He  paused.  Lady  Ann  turned  her  eyes  slowly  on 
Richard.  Wingfold  saw  a  slight  just  perceptible 
start,  and  a  settling  of  the  jaws 


574  THERE    AND    BACK. 


"The  other  gentleman,"  resumed  the  baronet, 
"you  do  not  know,  but  you  will  soon  be  the  best  of 
friends. " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Sir  Wilton,  I  do  know  him  ! — 
I  hope,"  she  went  on,  turning  to  Richard,  "you  will 
keep  steadily  to  your  work.  The  sooner  the  books 
are  finished  the  better !  " 

Richard  smiled,  but  what  he  was  on  the  point  of 
saying,  his  father  prevented. 

"  You  mistake,  my  lady  !  I  thought  you  did  not 
know  him  !  "  said  the  baronet.  "  That  gentleman  is 
my  son,  and  will  one  day  be  Sir  Richard." 

"  Oh  !  "  returned  her  ladyship — without  a  shadow 
of  change  in  her  impassivity,  except  Wingfold  was 
right  in  fancying  the  slightest  movement  of  squint  in 
the  eye  next  him.     She  held  out  her  hand. 

"This  is  an  unexpected — " 

For  once  in  her  life  her  lips  were  truer  than  her 
heart  ;  they  did  not  say  pleasure. 

Richard  took  her  hand  respectfully,  sad  for  the 
woman  whose  winter  had  no  fuel,  and  who  looked 
as  if  she  would  be  cold  to  all  eternity.  Lady  Ann 
stared  him  in  the  eyes  and  said, — 

"My  favorite  prayer-book  has  come  to  pieces  at 
last :  perhaps  you  would  bind  it  for  me  ?  ' 

"  I  shall  be  delighted,"  answered  Richard. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said,  bowed  to  Wingfold,  and 
left  the  room. 

Sir  Wilton  sat  like  an  offended  turkey-cock,  staring 
after  her.      "  By  Jove  !  "  he  seemed  to  say  to  himself. 

"There  !  that's  over  !  "  he  cried,  coming  to  himself. 
"Ring  the  bell,  Richard,  and  let  us  have  lunch. — 
Richard,  no  gentleman  could  have  behaved  better ! 


575 


I  am  proud  of  you  ! — It's  blood  that  does  it !  "  he 
murmured  to  himself. 

As  if  he  had  himself  compounded  both  his  own 
blood  and  his  boy's  in  the  still-room  of  creation,  he 
took  all  the  credit  of  Richard's  savoir  /aire,  as  he 
counted  it.  He  did  not  know  that  the  same  thing- 
made  Wing-fold  happy  and  Richard  a  gentleman  ! 
Richard  had  had  a  higher  breeding  than  was  known 
to  Sir  Wilton.  At  the  court  of  courts,  whence  the 
manners  of  some  other  courts  would  be  swept  as 
dust  from  the  floors,  the  baronet  would  hardly  gain 
admittance  ! 

Lady  Ann  went  up  the  stair  slowly  and  perpendicu- 
larly, a  dull  pain  at  her  heart  The  cause  was  not 
so  much  that  her  son  was  the  second  son,  as  that  the 
son  of  the  blacksmith's  daughter  was — she  took  care 
to  say  at  first  sight — a  ^v\ex  gentleman  than  her  Arthur. 
Rank  and  position,  she  vaguely  reflected,  must  not 
look  for  justice  from  the  jealous  heavens!  They 
always  sided  with  the  poor  !  Just  see  the  party-spirit 
of  the  Psalms  !  The  rich  and  noble  were  hardly 
dealt  with  !  Nowadays  even  the  church  was  with 
the  radicals  ! 

The  baronet  was  merry  over  his  luncheon.  The 
servants  wondered  at  first,  but  before  the  soup  was 
removed  they  wondered  no  more  :  the  young  man 
at  the  table,  in  whom  not  one  of  them  had  recognized 
the  bookbinder,  was  the  lost  heir  to  Mortgrange  ! 
He  was  worth  finding,  they  agreed — one  who  would 
hold  his  own  !  The  house  would  be  merrier  now — 
thank  heaven  !  They  liked  Mr.  Arthur  well  enough, 
but  here  was  his  master  ! 

The  meal  was  over,  and  the  baronet  always  slept 
after  lunch. 


576  THERE    AND    BACK. 

"You'll  stay  to  dinner,  won't  you,  Mr.  Wingfold  ?" 
he  said,  rising-.  " — Richard,  ring  the  bell.  Better 
send  for  Mrs.  Locke  at  once,  and  arrange  with  her 
where  you  will  sleep." 

"  Then  I  may  choose  my  own  room,  sir  ?  "  rejoined 
Richard. 

"Of  course — but  better  not  too  near  my  lady's," 
answered  his  father  with  a  grim  smile  as  he  hobbled 
from  the  room. 

When  the  housekeeper  came — 

"Mrs.  Locke,"  said  Richard,  "I  want  to  see  the 
room  that  used  to  be  the  nursery — in  the  older  time, 
I  mean." 

"Yes,  sir,"  answered  Mrs.  Locke,  pleasantly,  and 
led  them  up  two  flights  of  stairs  and  along  corridor 
and  passage  to  the  room  Richard  had  before  occupied. 
He  glanced  round  it,  and  said, 

"  This  shall  be  my  room.  Will  you  kindly  get  it 
ready  for  me?" 

She  hesitated.  It  had  certainly  not  been  repapered, 
as  Sir  Wilton  thought,  and  had  said  to  Mrs.  Tuke  ! 
To  Mrs.  Locke  it  seemed  uninhabitable  by  a  gentle- 
man. 

"I  will  send  for  the  painter  and  paper-hanger  at 
once,"  she  replied,  "but  it  will  take  more  than  a 
week  to  get  ready." 

"Pray  leave  it  as  it  is,"  he  answered.  " — You  can 
have  the  floor  swept  of  course,"  he  added  with  a 
smile,  seeing  her  look  of  dismay.  "  I  will  sleep  here 
to-night,  and  we  can  settle  afterward  what  is  to  be 
done  to  it. — There  used  to  be  a  portrait,"  he  went  on, 
" — over  the  chimney-piece,  the  portrait  of  a  lady — 
not  well  painted,  I  fancy,  but  I  liked  it  :  what  has 
become  of  it  ?  " 


577 


Then  first  it  began  to  dawn  on  Mrs.  Locke  tliat 
the  young  man  who  mended  the  books,  and  the  heir 
to  Mortgrange  were  the  same  person. 

"It  fell  down  one  day,  and  has  not  been  put  up 
again,"  she  answered. 

"  Do  you  know  where  it  is  ?  " 

"I  will  find  it,  sir." 

"  Do,  if  you  please.     Whose  portrait  is  it  ?  " 

"The  last  Lady  Lestrange's,  sir. — But  bless  my 
stupid  old  head  !  it's  his  own  mother's  picture  he's 
asking  for!  You'll  pardon  me,  sir!  The  thing's 
more  bewildermg  than  you'd  think  ! — I'll  go  and  get 
it  at  once." 

"Thank  you.  Mr.  Wingfold  audi  will  wait  till 
you  bring  it." 

"There  ain't  anywhere  for  you  to  sit,  sir!" 
lamented  the  old  lady.  "If  Ld  only  known  !  Lm 
sure,  sir,  I  wish  you  joy  !  " 

"Thank  you,  Mrs.  Locke.  We'll  sit  here  on  the 
mattress." 

Richard  had  not  forgotten  how  the  eyes  of  the 
picture  used  to  draw  his,  and  he  had  often  since 
wondered  whether  it  could  be  the  portrait  of  his 
mother. 

In  a  few  minutes  Mrs.  Locke  reappeared,  carrying 
the  portrait,  which  had  never  been  put  in  a  frame, 
and  knotting  the  cord,  Richard  hung  it  again  on  the 
old  nail.  It  showed  a  well-formed  face,  but  was 
very  flat  and  wooden.  The  eyes,  however,  were 
comparatively  well  painted;  and  it  seemed  to  Rich- 
ard that  he  could  read  both  sorrow  and  disappoint- 
ment in  them,  with  a  yearning  after  something  she 
could  not  have. 

They  went  out  for  a  ramble  in  the  park,  and  there 
37 


578  THERE    AND    BACK. 


Richard  told  his  friend  as  much  as  he  knew  of  his 
story,  describing  as  well  as  he  understood  them  the 
changes  that  had  passed  upon  him  in  the  matter  of 
religion,  and  making  no  secret  of  what  he  owed  to  the 
expostulations  and  spiritual  resistances  of  Barbara. 
Wingfold,  after  listening  with  profound  attention,  told 
him  he  had  passed  through  an  experience  in  many 
points  like,  and  at  the  root  the  same  as  his  own  ;  add- 
ing that,  long  before  he  was  sure  of  anything,  it 
had  become  more  than  possible  for  him  to  keep  go- 
ing on  :  and  that  still  he  was  but  looking  and  hoping 
and  waiting  for  a  fuller  dawn  of  what  had  made  his 
being  already  blessed. 

They  consulted  whether  Wingfold  should  act  on 
the  baronet's  careless  invitation,  and  concluded  it 
better  he  should  not  stay  to  dinner.  Then,  as  there 
was  yet  time,  and  it  was  partly  on  Wingfold's  way, 
they  set  out  for  the  smithy. 


CHAPTER    LIX. 

WINGFOLD    AND    ARTHUR    MANSON. 

When  the  first  delight  of  their  meeting  was  abated, 
Simon  sent  to  let  Arthur  Manson  know  that  his 
brother  was  there.  For  Arthur  had  all  this  time  been 
with  Simon,  to  whom  Richard,  saving  enough  from 
his  allowance,  had  prevented  him  from  being  a 
burden. 

He  looked  much  better,  and  was  enchanted  to  see 
his  brother  again,  and  learn  the  good  news  of  his 
recognition  by  his  father. 

"I'm  so  glad  it's  you  and  not  me,  Richard  !  "  he 
said.  "It  makes  me  feel  quite  safe  and  happy. 
We  shall  have  nothing  now  but  fair  play  all  round, 
the  rest  of  our  lives  !     How  happy  Alice  will  be  !  " 

"Is  Alice  still  in  the  old  place .?  I  haven't  heard 
of  her  for  some  time,"  said  Richard. 

"Don't  you  know.?"  exclaimed  Arthur.  "She's 
been  at  the  parsonage  for  months  and  months  !  Mrs. 
Wingfold  went  and  fetched  her  away,  to  work  for 
her,  and  be  near  me.  She's  as  happy  now  as  the  day 
is  long.  She  says  if  everybody  was  as  good  as  her 
master  and  mistress,  there  would  be  no  misery  left  in 
the  world." 

"I  don't  doubt  it,"  answered  Richard.  " — But 
I've  just  parted  with  Mr.  Wingfold,  and  he  didn't  say 
a  word  about  her  !  " 

"When   anything  has  to  be   done,    Mr.  Wingfold 


5«o 


THERE    AND    BACK. 


never  forgets  it, "  said  Arthur  ;  "but  I  should  just 
like  to  hear  all  the  things  Mr.  Wingfold  did  and  forgot 
in  a  month  ! " 

"Arthur's  getting  on  !  "  thought  Richard. 

But  he  had  to  learn  how  much  Wingfold  had  done 
for  him.  First  of  all  he  had  set  himself,  by  talking 
to  him  and  lending  him  books,  to  find  out  his  bent, 
or  at  least  something  he  was  capable  of.  But  for 
months  he  could  not  wake  him  enough  to  know 
anything  of  what  was  in  him  :  the  poor  fellow  was 
weary  almost  to  death.  At  last,  however,  he  got 
him  to  observe  a  little.  Then  he  began  to  set  him 
certain  tasks  ;  and  as  he  was  an  invalid,  the  first 
was  what  he  called  "  The  task  of  twelve  o'clock  ;  " 
— which  was,  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  from  every 
noon  during  a  month,  to  write  down  what  he  then 
saw  going  on  in  the  world. 

The  first  day  he  had  nothing  to  show  :  he  had  seen 
nothing  ! 

"What  were  the  clouds  doing.?"  Mr.  Wingfold 
asked.  "What  were  the  horses  in  the  fields  doing.? 
— What  were  the  birds  you  saw  doing.? — What  were 
the  ducks  and  hens  doing.? — Put  down  whatever  you 
see  any  creature  about." 

The  next  evening,  he  went  to  him  again,  and 
asked  him  for  his  paper.  Arthur  handed  him  a  folded' 
sheet. 

"Now,"  said  Mr.  Wingfold,  "I  am  not  going  to 
look  at  this  for  the  present.  I  am  going  to  lay  it  in 
one  of  my  drawers,  and  you  must  write  another  for 
me  to-morrow.  If  you  are  able,  bring  it  over  to  me  ; 
if  not,  lay  it  by,  and  do  not  look  at  it,  but  write 
another,  and  another — one  everyday,  and  give  them 
all  to  me  the  next  time  I  come,  which  will  be  soon. 


WINGFOLD    AND    ARTHUR    MANSON.  58 1 

We  shall  go  on  that  way  for  a  month,  and  then  we 
shall  see  something  !  " 

At  the  end  of  the  month  Mr.  Wingfold  took  all  the 
papers  and  fastened  them  together  in  their  proper 
order.  Then  they  read  them  together,  and  did  indeed 
see  something  1  The  growth  of  Arthurs  observation, 
both  in  extent  and  quality,  also  the  growth  of  his 
faculty  for  narrating  what  he  saw,  were  remarkable 
both  to  himself  and  his  instructor.  The  number  of 
things  and  circumstances  he  was  able  to  see  by  the 
end  of  the  month,  compared  with  the  number  he  had 
seen  in  the  beginning  of  it,  was  wonderful ;  while 
the  mode  of  his  record-had  changed  from  that  of  a 
child  to  that  almost  of  a  man. 

Mr.  Wingfold  next,  as  by  that  time  the  weather  was 
quite  warm,  set  him  "The  task  of  six  o'clock  in  the 
evening,"  when  the  things  that  presented  themselves 
to  his  notice  would  be  very  different.  After  a  fort- 
night, he  changed  again  the  hour  of  his  observation, 
and  went  on  changing  it.  So  that  at  length  the  youth 
who  had,  twice  every  day,  walked  along  Cheapside 
almost  without  seeing  that  one  face  differed  from 
another,  knew  most  of  the  birds  and  many  of  the 
insects,  and  could  in  general  tell  what  they  were 
about,  while  the  domestic  animals  were  his  familiar 
friends.  He  delighted  in  the  grass  and  the  wild 
flowers,  the  sky  and  the  clouds  and  the  stars,  and 
knew,  after  a  real,  vital  fashion,  the  world  in  which 
he  lived.  He  entered  into  the  life  that  was  going  on 
about  him,  and  so  in  the  house  of  God  became  one  of 
the  family.  He  had  ten  times  his  former  conscious- 
ness ;  his  life  was  ten  times  the  size  it  was  before. 
As  was  natural,  his  health  had  improved  marvellous- 
ly.    There  is  nothing  like  interest  in  life  to  quicken 


582  THERE    AND    BACK. 


the  vital  forces — the  secret  of  which  is,  that  they  are 
left  freer  to  work. 

Richard  was  rejoiced  with  the  change  in  him,  and 
reckoned  of  what  he  might  learn  from  Arthur  in  the 
long  days  before  them ;  while  he  in  turn  would  tell 
him  many  things  he  would  now  be  prepared  to  hear. 
The  soul  that  had  seemed  rapidly  sinking  into  the 
joyless  dark  was  now  burning  clear  as  a  torch  of 
heaven. 


CHAPTER  LX. 

kiCHARD    AND    HIS    FAMILY. 

As  the  dinner  hour  drew  nigh,  Richard  went  to  the 
drawing-room,  scrupulously  dressed.  Lady  Ann 
gave  him  the  coldest  of  polite  recognitions  ;  Theodora 
was  full  of  a  gladness  hard  to  keep  within  the  bounds 
which  fear  of  her  mother  counselled  ;  Victoria  was 
scornful,  and  as  impudent  as  she  dared  be  in  the 
presence  of  her  father  ;  Miss  Malliver  was  utterly 
wooden,  and  behaved  as  if  she  had  never  seen  him 
before ;  Arthur  was  poHte  and  superior.  Things 
went  pretty  well,  however,  Percy,  happily,  was  at 
Woolwich,  pretending  to  study  engineering  :  of  him 
Richard  had  learned  too  much  at  Oxford. 

Theodora  and  Richard  were  at  once  drawn  to  each 
other — he  prejudiced  in  her  favor  by  Barbara,  she 
proud  of  her  new,  handsome  brother.  She  was  a 
plain,  good-natured,  good-tempered  girl — with  red 
hair,  which  only  her  father  and  mother  disliked,  and 
a  modest,  freckled  face,  whose  smile  was  genuine 
and  faith-inspiring.  Her  mother  counted  her  stupid, 
accepting  the  judgment  of  the  varnished  governess, 
who  saw  wonder  or  beauty  or  value  in  nothing  her 
eyes  or  hands  could  not  reach.  Theodora  was  indeed 
one  of  those  who,  for  lack  of  true  teaching,  or  from 
the  deliberateness  of  nature,  continue  children  longer 
than  most,  but  she  was  not  therefore  stupid.  The  aloe 
takes  seven  years  to  blossom,  but  when  it  does,  its 
flower  may  be  thirtv  feet  long.      Where  there  is  love 


584  THERE    AND    BACK. 


there  is  intellect:  at  what  period  it  may  show  itself,  mat- 
ters little.  Richard  felt  he  had  in  her  another  sister — 
one  for  whom  he  might  do  something.  He  talked  freely 
as  became  him  at  his  father's  table,  and  the  conver- 
sation did  not  quite  flag.  If  Lady  Ann  said  next  to 
nothing,  she  said  nearly  as  much  as  usual,  and  was 
perfectly  civil  ;  Arthur  was  sullen  but  not  rude  ;  Theo- 
dora's joy  made  her  talk  as  she  had  never  talked 
before.  A  morn  of  romance  had  dawned  upon  her 
commonplace  life  !  Vixen  gave  herself  to  her  din- 
ner, and  but  the  shadow  of  a  grimace  now  and 
then  reminded  Richard  of  the  old  monkey-phiz. 

Having  the  heart  of  a  poet,  the  brain  of  a  scientist, 
and  the  hands  of  a  workman — hands,  that  is,  made 
for  making,  Richard  talked  so  vitally  that  in  most 
families  not  one  but  all  would  have  been  interested  ; 
and  indeed  Arthur  too  would  have  enjoyed  listening, 
but  that  he  was  otherwise  occupied.  That  he  had  to 
look  unconcerned  at  his  own  deposition,  while  re- 
garding as  an  intruder  the  man  whose  place  he  had 
so  long  in  a  sense  usurped,  was  not  his  sorest  trial  : 
regarding  as  a  prig  the  man  who  talked  about  things 
worth  talking  about,  he  could  not  help  feeling  him- 
self a  poor  creature,  an  empty  sack,  beside  the  son 
of  the  low-born  woman.  But  indeed  Richard,  brought 
face  to  face  with  life,  and  taught  to  meet  necessity 
with  labor,  had  had  immeasurable  advantages  over 
Arthur. 

The  younger  insisted  to  himself  that  his  brother 
could  not  have  the  feelings  of  a  gentleman  ;  that  he 
must  have  poverty-stricken  ways  of  looking  at  things. 
He  could,  it  was  true,  find  nothing  in  his  manners, 
carriage,  or  speech,  unlike  a  gentleman,  but  the  vul- 


V 


RICHARD    AND    HIS    FAMILY.  585 

garity  must  be  there,  and  he  watched  to  find  it.  For 
he  was  not  himself  a  gentleman  yet 

When  they  went  to  the  drawing-room,  and  Rich- 
ard had  sung  a  ballad  so  as  almost  to  make  Lady  Ann 
drop  a  scale  or  two  from  her  fish-eyes,  Arthur  went 
out  of  the  room  stung  with  envy,  and  not  ashamed 
of  it.  The  thing  most  alien  to  the  true  idea  of 
humanity  is  the  notion  that  our  well-being  lies  in 
surpassing  our  fellows.  We  have  to  rise  above  our- 
selves, not  above  our  neighbors;  to  take  all  the  good 
q/them  woi  from  them,  and  give  them  all  our  good  in 
return.  That  which  cannot  be  freely  shared  can 
never  be  possessed.  Arthur  went  to  his  room  with 
.a  gnawing  at  his  heart.  Not  merely  must  he  knock 
under  to  the  foundling,  but  confess  that  the  foundling 
could  do  most  things  better  than  he — was  out  of  sight 
his  superior  in  accomplishment  as  well  as  education. 
— "But  let  us  see  how  he  rides  and  shoots!"  he 
thought. 

Even  Vixen,  who  had  been  saying  to  herself  all 
the  time  of  dinner,  "  Mean  fellow  !  to  come  like  a 
fox  and  steal  poor  Arthur's  property  !  " — even  she 
was  cowed  a  little  by  his  singing,  and  felt  for  the 
moment  in  the  presence  of  her  superior. 

Sir  Wilton  was  delighted.  Here  was  a  son  to  rep- 
resent him  ! — the  son  of  the  woman  the  county  had 
declined  to  acknowledge  !  What  was  Lady  Ann's 
plebeian  litter  beside  this  high-bred,  modest,  self- 
possessed  fellow  !  He  was  worthy  of  his  father,  by 
Jove  1 

He  went  early  to  bed,  and  Richard  was  not  sorry. 
He  too  retired  early,  leaving  the  rest  to  talk  him 
over. 

How  they  did  it,  I  do  not  care  to  put  on  record. 


586  THERE    AND    BACK. 


Theodora  said  little,  for  her  heart  had  come  awake 
with  a  new  and  lovely  sense  of  gladness  and 
hope. 

"If  he  would  but  fall  in  love  with  Barbara  Wylder  !  " 
she  thought  ;  " — or  rather  if  Barbara  would  but  fall 
in  love  with  him,  for  nobody  can  help  falling  in  love 
with  her,  how  happy  I  should  be  !  they  are  the  two 
I  love  best  in  the  world  ! — next  to  papa  and  mamma, 
of  course  !  "  she  added,  being  a  loyal  girl. 

The  next  morning,  Richard  came  upon  Arthur 
shooting  at  a  mark,  and  both  with  pistols  and  rifle 
beat  him  thoroughly.  But  when  Arthur  began  to  talk 
about  shooting  pheasants,  he  found  in  Richard  a 
rooted  dislike  to  killing.  This  moved  Arthur's  con- 
tempt. 

"  Keep  it  dark,"  he  said  ;  "  you'll  be  laughed  at  if 
you  don't.      My  father  won't  like  it." 

'"Why  must  a  man  enjoy  himself  at  the  expense  of 
joy.?"  answered  Richard.  "I  pass  no  judgment 
upon  your  sport.  I  merely  say  I  don't  choose  to 
kill  birds.  What  men  may  think  of  me  for  it  is  a 
matter  of  indifference  to  me.  I  think  of  them  much  ■ 
as  they  think  of  a  Frenchman  or  an  Italian,  who 
shoots  larks  and  blackbirds  and  thrushes  and  nightin- 
gales :  I  don't  see  the  great  difference  !  " 

They  strolled  into  the  stable.  There  stood  Miss 
Brown,  looking  over  the  door  of  her  box.  She  re- 
ceived Richard  with  glad  recognition. 

"How    comes    Miss     Brown    here.?"   he   asked. 
"Where  can  her  mistress  be  }  " 

"The  mare's  at  home,"  answered  Arthur.  "I 
bought  her. " 

"Oh!"  said  Richard,  and  going  into  the  box, 
lifted  her  foot,  aud  looked  at  the  shoe.     Ala_s.  Miss 


RICHARD    AND    HIS    FAMILY.  587 

Brown  had  worn  out  many  shoes  since  Barbara  drove 
a  nail  in  her  hoof  !  Had  there  been  one  of  hers  there, 
he  would  have  known  it — by  a  pretty  peculiarity  in 
the  turn  of  the  point  back  into  the  hoof,  which  she 
called  her  mark.  The  mare  sniffed  about  his  head 
in  friendly  fashion. 

"She  smells  the  smithy  !  "  said  Arthur  to  himself. — 
"Yes  ;  your  grandfather's  work  !  "  he  remarked.  "  I 
should  be  sorry  to  see  any  other  man  shoe  horse  of 
mine  !  " 

"So should  I  !  "answered  Richard.  " — I  wonder 
why  Miss  Wylder  sold  Miss  Brown  !  "  he  said,  after 
a  pause. 

"I  am  not  so  curious!"  rejoined  Arthur.  "She 
sold  her,  and  I  bought  her." 

Neither  divined  that  the  animal  stood  there  a 
sacrifice  to  Barbara's  love  of  Richard. 

Arthur  had  given  up  hope  of  winning  Barbara,  but 
the  thought  that  the  bookbinder  fellow  might  now,  as 
he  vulgarly  phrased  it  to  himself,  go  in  and  win, 
swelled  his  heart  with  a  yet  fiercer  jealousy.  "I 
hate  him,"  he  said  in  his  heart.  Yet  Arthur  was  not 
a  bad  fellow  as  fellows  go.  He  was  only  a  man  for 
himself,  believing  every  man  must  be  for  himself,  and 
count  the  man  in  his  way  his  enemy.  He  was  just 
a  man  who  had  not  begun  to  stop  being  a  devil. 

At  breakfast,  Lady  Ann  was  almost  attentive  to  her 
stepson.  As  it  happened  they  were  left  alone  at  the 
table.     Suddenly  she  addressed  him. 

"  Richard,  I  have  one  request  to  make  of  you,"  she 
said  ;  "  I  hope  you  will  grant  it  me  !  " 

"I  will  if  lean,"  he  answered  ;  "but  I  must  not 
promise  without  knowing  what  it  is." 


588  THERE    AND    BACK, 


"  You  do  not  feel  bound  to  please  me,  I  know  !  I 
have  the  misfortune  not  to  be  your  mother  !  " 

"I  feel  bound  to  please  you  where  I  can,  and  shall 
be  more  than  glad  to  do  so."  * 

"It  is  a  small  thing  I  am  going  to  ask.  I  should 
not  have  thought  of  mentioning  it,  but  for  the  terms 
you  seem  upon  with  Mr.  Wingfold. " 

"I  hope  to  see  him  within  an  hour  or  so." 

"  I  thought  as  much  ! — Do  you  happen  to  remem- 
ber a  small  person  who  came  a  good  deal  about  the 
house  when  you  were  at  work  here.?" 

"  If  your  ladyship  means  Miss  Wylder,  I  remember 
her  perfectly." 

"It  is  necessary  to  let  you  know,  and  then  I  shall 
leave  the  matter  to  your  good  sense,  that  Mrs. 
Wylder,  and  indeed  the  girl  herself  at  various  times, 
has  behaved  to  me  with  such  rudeness,  that  you  can- 
not in  ordinary  decency  have  acquaintance  with  them, 
I  mention  it  in  case  Mr.  Wingfold  should  want  to 
take  you  to  see  them.    They  are  parishioners  of  his." 

"I  am  sorry  I  must  disappoint  you,"  said  Richard. 

Lady  Ann  rose  with  a  gray  glitter  in  her  eyes. 

"Am  I  to  understand  you  intend  calling  on  the 
Wylders  ?  "  she  said. 

"  I  have  imperative  reasons  for  calling  upon  them 
this  very  morning,"  answered  Richard. 

"  I  am  sorry  you  should  so  immediately  show  your 
antagonism  !  "  said  Lady  Ann. 

"  My  obligations  to  Miss  Wylder  are  such  that  I 
miist  see  her  the  first  possible  moment." 

"  Have  you  asked  your  father's  permission  ?  " 

"I  have  not,"  answered  Richard,  and  left  the  room 
hurriedly. 

The  next  moment  he  was  out  of  the  house  :  Lady 


RICHARD    AND    HIS    FAMILY. 


Ann  might  go  to  his  father,  and  he  would  gladly  avoid 
the  necessity  of  disobeying  him  the  first  morning 
after  his  return  !  He  did  not  know  how  small  was 
her  influence  with  her  husband.  He  took  the  path 
across  the  fields,  and  ran  until  he  was  out  of  sight  of 
Mortgrange. 


CHAPTER  LXI. 


HEART  TO  HEART. 


When  he  came  to  the  parsonage,  which  he  had  to 
pass  on  his  way  to  the  Hall,  he  saw  Mr.  Wingfold 
through  the  open  window  of  the  drawing-room,  and 
turned  to  the  door.  The  parson  met  him  on  the 
threshold, 

' '  Welcome  !  "  he  said.  "How  did  you  get  through 
your  dinner.?  " 

"Better  than  I  expected,"  replied  Richard.  "But 
this  morning  my  stepmother  began  feeling  my  mouth  : 
she  would  have  me  promise  not  to  call  on  the  Wyl- 
ders.     They  had  been  rude  to  her,  she  said. " 

"  Come  into  the  drawing-room.  A  friend  of  mine 
is  there  who  will  be  glad  to  see  you." 

The  drawing-room  of  the  parsonage  was  low  and 
dark,  with  its  two  windows  close  together  on  the 
same  side.  At  the  farther  end  stood  a  lady,  seem- 
ingly occupied  with  an  engraving  on  the  wall.  She 
did  not  move  when  they  entered.  Wingfold  led 
Richard  up  to  her,  then  turned  without  a  word,  and 
left  the  room.  Before  either  knew,  they  were  each 
in  the  other's  arms. 

Barbara  was  sobbing.  Richard  thought  he  had 
dared  too  much  and  had  frightened  her. 

"I  couldn't  help  it  !  "  Barbara  said,  pleadingly. 

"My  life  has  been  a  longing  for  you!"  said 
Richard. 


HEART    TO    HEART. 


591 


"I  have  wanted  you  every  day  !"  said  Barbara, 
and  began  again  to  sob,  but  recovered  herself  with 
an  effort. 

"This  will  never  do,"  she  cried,  laughing  through 
her  tears.  "  I  shall  go  crazy  with  having  you  !  And 
I've  not  seen  you  yet !  Let  me  go,  please.  I  want 
to  look  at  you  !  " 

Richard  released  her.  She  lifted  a  blushing,  tear- 
ful face  to  his.  But  there  was  only  joy,  no  pain 
in  her  tears  ;  only  delight,  no  shame  in  her  blushes. 
One  glance  at  the  simple,  manly  face  before  her, 
so  full  of  the  trust  that  induces  trust,  would  have 
satisfied  any  true  woman  that  she  was  as  safe  in  his 
thoughts  as  in  those  of  her  mother.  She  gazed  at 
him  one  long  silent  moment 

"  How  splendid  you  are!"  she  cried,  like  a  wild 
schoolgirl.  "How  good  of  you  to  grow  like  that  ! 
1  wish  I  could  see  you  on  Miss  Brown  I — What  are 
you  going  to  do,  Richard  ?  " 

While  she  spoke,  Richard  was  pasturing  his  eyes, 
the  two  mouths  of  his  soul,  on  the  heavenly  meadow 
of  her  face  ;  and  she  for  very  necessity  went  on  talk- 
ing, that  she  might  not  cry  again. 

"Are  you  going  back  to  the  bookbinding.'"  she 
said. 

"I  do  not  know.  Sir  Wilton — my  father  hasn't 
told  me  yet  what  he  wants  me  to  do. — Wasn't  it  good 
of  him  to  send  me  to  Oxford  ?  " 

"You've  been  at  Oxford  then  all  this  time.? — I 
suppose  he  will  make  an  officer  of  you  now  ! — Not 
that  I  care  !  I  am  content  with  whatever  contents 
you  !  " 

"  I  dare  say  he  will  hardly  like  me  to  live  by  my 
hands  !"  answered  Richard,  laughing.      "He  would 


592  THERE    AND    BACK. 


count  it  a  degradation  !  There  I  shall  never  be  able 
to  think  like  a  gentleman  !  " 

Barbara  looked  perplexed. 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  he's  going  to  treat  you 
just  like  one  of  the  rest?"  she  exclaimed. 

"  I  really  do  not  know,"  answered  Richard  ;  "  but 
I  think  he  would  hardly  enjoy  the  thought  of  Sir 
Richard  Lesirange  over  a  bookbinder's  shop  in  Ham- 
mersmith or  Brentford  !  " 

''Sir  Richard  !     You  do  not  mean }  " 

Her  face  grew  white  ;  her  eyes  fell  ;  her  hand 
trembled  on  Richard's  arm. 

"What  is  troubling  you,  dearest.?"  he  asked,  in 
his  turn  perplexed. 

"  I  can't  understand  it !  "  she  answered. 

"Is  it  possible  you  do  not  know,  Barbara.?"  he 
returned.  "  I  thought  Mr.  Wingfold  must  have  told 
you  ! — Sir  Wilton  says  I  am  his  son  that  was  lost. 
Indeed  there  is  no  doubt  of  it  !  " 

"Richard!  Richard!  believe  me  I  didn't  know. 
Lady  Ann  told  me  you  were  not !  " 

"How  then  should  I  have  dared  put  my  arms 
round  you,  Barbara  ?  " 

"  Richard,  I  care  nothing  for  what  the  world 
thinks  !     I  care  only  for  what  God  thinks." 

"Then,  Barbara,  you  would  have  married  me, 
believing  me  base-born  }  " 

"  Oh,  Richard  !  you  thought  it  was  knowing  who 

you  were  that  made  me !     Richard  !  Richard  !   I 

did  not  think  you  could  have  wronged  me  so  !  My 
father  sold  Miss  Brown  because  I  would  not  marry 
your  brother  and  be  Lady  Lestrange.  If  you  had 
not  asked  me,  and  I  had  been  sure  it  was  only 
because  of  your  birth  you  wouldn't,  I  should  have 


HEART    TO    HEART.  593 


found  some  way  of  letting  you  know  I  cared  no 
more  for  that  than  God  himself  does.  The  god  of 
the  world  is  the  devil.  He  has  many  names,  but 
he's  all  the  same  devil,  as  Mr.  Wingfold  says. — I 
wonder  why  he  never  told  me  ! — I'm  glad  he  didn't. 
If  he  had,  I  shouldn't  be  here  now  !  " 

"  I  am  very  glad  too,  Barbara  ;  but  it  wouldn't 
have  made  so  much  difference  :  I  was  only  here  on 
my  way  to  you  !  But  suppose  it  had  been  as  you 
thought,  it  was  one  thing  what  you  would  do,  and 
another  what  I  would  ask  you  to  do  !  " 

"What  I  would  have  done  was  what  you  should 
have  believed  I  would  do  !  " 

"  You  must  just  pardon  me,  Barbara  :  well  as  I 
thought  I  knew  you,  I  did  not  know  you  enough  !  " 

"  You  do  now  ?  " 

"I  do." 

There  came  a  silence. 

"  How  long  have  you  known  this  about  yourself, 
Richard  .?  "  said  Barbara. 

"  More  than  four  years." 

"  And  you  never  told  me  !  " 

"  My  father  wished  it  kept  a  secret  for  a  time." 

"  Did  Mr.  Wingfold  know  ?  " 

"  Not  till  yesterday." 

"  Why  didn't  he  tell  me  yesterday,  then  ?  " 

"  I  think  he  wouldn't  have  told  you  if  he  had 
known  all  the  time." 

"Why.?" 

"  For  the  same  reason  that  made  him  leave  us 
together  so  suddenly — that  you  might  not  be  ham- 
pered by  knowing  it — that  we  might  understand  each 
other  before  you  knew.  I  see  it  all  now  !  It  was 
just  like  him  !  " 

38 


594  THERE    AND    BACK. 


"Oh,  he  is  a  friend!"  cried  Barbara.  "He  knows 
what  one  is,  and  so  knows  what  one  is  thinking !" 

A  silent  embrace  followed,  and  then  Barbara  said  : 

"  You  must  come  and  see  my  mother  !  " 

"  Hadn't  you  better  tell  her  first  ? "  suggested 
Richard. 

"  She  knows — knows  what  you  didn't  know — what 
I've  been  thinking  all  the  time,"  rejoined  Barbara, 
with  a  rosy  look  of  confidence  into  his  eyes. 
.    "She   can    never  have  been  willing   you    should 
marry  a  tradesman — and  one,  besides,  who — ~!  " 

"She  knew  I  would — and  that  I  should  have 
money,  else  she  might  not  have  been  willing.  I 
don't  say  she  likes  the  idea,  but  she  is  determined  I 
shall  have  the  man  I  love — if  he  will  have  me,"  she 
added,  shyly. 

"  Did  you  tell  her  you — cared  for  me .?  " 

He  could  not  say  /oved  yet ;  he  felt  an  earthy  pebble 
beside  a  celestial  sapphire  ! 

"Of  course  I  did,  when  papa  wanted  me  to  have 
Arthur  ! — not  till  then  ;  there  was  no  occasion  !  I 
could  not  tell  what  your  thoughts  were,  but  my  own 
were  enough  for  that." 

Mrs.  Wylder  was  taken  with  Richard  the  moment 
she  saw  him  ;  and  when  she  heard  his  story,  she 
was  overjoyed,  and  would  scarcely  listen  to  a  word 
about  the  uncertainty  of  his  prospects.  That  her 
Bab  should  marry  the  man  she  loved,  and  that  the 
alliance  should  be  what  the  world  counted  respect- 
able, was  enough  for  her. 

When  Richard  told  his  father  what  he  had  done, 
saying  they  had  fallen  in  love  with  each  other  while 
yet  ignorant  of  his  parentage,  a  glow  of  more  than 
satisfaction  warmed  Sir  Wilton's  consciousness.     It 


HEART    TO    HEART. 


595 


was  lovely  !  Lady  Ann  was  being  fooled  on  all 
sides  ! 

"  Richard  has  been  making  good  use  of  his  morn- 
ing !  "  he  said  at  .dinner.  "  He  has  already  proposed 
to  Miss  Wylder  and  been  accepted  !  Richard  is  a 
man  of  action— a  practical  fellow  !  " 

Lady  Ann  did  perhaps  turn  a  shade  paler,  but  she 
smiled.  It  was  not  such  a  blow  as  it  might  have 
been,  for  she  too  had  given  up  hope  of  securing  her 
for  Arthur.  But  it  was  not  pleasant  to  her  that  the 
grandchild  of  the  blacksmith  should  have  Barbara's 
money, 

Theodora  was  puzzled. 


CHAPTER    LXII. 

THE  QUARREL. 

For  a  few  weeks,  things  went  smoothly  enough. 
Not  a  jar  occurred  in  the  feeble  harmony,  not  a  ques- 
tionable cloud  appeared  above  the  horizon.  The 
home-weather  seemed  to  have  grown  settled.  Lady 
Ann  was  not  unfriendly.  Richard,  having  provided 
himself  with  tools  for  the  purpose,  bound  her  prayer- 
book  in  violet  velvet,  with  her  arms  cut  out  in  gold 
on  the  cover  ;  and  she  had  not  seemed  altogether 
ungrateful.  Arthur  showed  no  active  hostility,  made 
indeed  some  little  fight  with  himself  to  behave  as  a 
brother  ought  to  a  brother  he  would  rather  not  have 
found.  Far  from  inseparable,  they  were  yet  to  be 
seen  together  about  the  place.  Vixen  had  not  once 
made  a  face  to  his  face  ;  I  will  not  say  she  had 
made  none  at  his  back.  Theodora  and  he  were  fast 
friends.  Miss  Malliver,  now  a  sort  of  upper  slave 
to  Lady  Ann,  cringed  to  him. 

Arthur  readily  sold  him  Miss  Brown,  and  every 
day  she  carried  him  to  Barbara.  But  he  took  the 
advice  of  Wingfold,  and  was  not  long  from  home 
any  day,  but  much  at  hand  to  his  father's  call,  who 
had  many  things  for  him  to  do,  and  was  rejoiced  to 
find  him,  unlike  Arthur,  both  able  and  ready.  He 
would  even  send  him  where  a  domestic  might  have 
done  as  well  ;  but  Richard  went  with  hearty  good 
will.  It  gladdened  him  to  be  of  service  to  the  old 
man. 


THE    QUARREL.  597 


Then  a  rumor  reached  his  father's  ears,  carried  to 
Lady  Ann  by  her  elderly  maid,  that  Richard  had 
been  seen  in  low  company;  and  he  was  not  long  in 
suepecting  the  truth  of  the  matter. 

Not  once  before  since  Richard's  return,  had  Sir 
Wilton  given  the  Mansons  a  thought,  never  doubt- 
ing his  son's  residence  at  Oxford  must  have  cured 
him  of  a  merely  accidental  inclination  to  such  low 
company,  and  made  evident  to  him  that  recognition 
of  such  relationship  as  his  to  them  was  an  unheard- 
of  impropriety,  a  sin  against  social  order,  a  class- 
treachery. 

Almost  every  day  Richard  went  to  Wylder  Hall, 
he  had  a  few  minutes  with  Alice  at  the  parsonage. 
Neither  Barbara  nor  her  lawless,  great-hearted 
mother,  would  have  been  pleased  to  have  it  other- 
wise. Barbara  treated  Alice  as  a  sister,  and  so  did 
Helen  Wingfold,  who  held  that  such  service  as  hers 
must  be  recompensed  with  love,  and  the  money 
thrown  in.  There  kindness,  with  her  new  peace  of 
heart,  and  plenty  of  food  and  fresh  air,  had  made 
her  strong  and  almost  beautiful. 

It  was  Richard's  custom  to  ride  over  in  the  morn- 
ing, but  one  day  it  was  more  convenient  for  him  to 
go  in  the  evening,  and  that  same  evening  it  happened 
that  Arthur  Manson  had  gone  to  see  his  sister.  When 
Richard,  on  his  way  back  from  the  Hall,  found  him 
at  the  parsonage,  he  proposed  to  see  him  home  : 
INIiss  Brown  was  a  good  walker,  and  if  Arthur  did 
not  choose  to  ride  all  the  way,  they  would  ride  and 
walk  alternately.  Arthur  was  delighted,  and  they 
set  out  in  the  dusk  on  foot,  Alice  going  a  little  way 
with  them.  Richard  led  Miss  Brown,  and  Alice 
clung  joyously    to   his    arm  :  but  for   Richard,  she 


598  THERE    AND    BACK. 


would  not  have  known  that  human  being  ever  was 
or  could  be  so  happy  !  The  western  sky  was  a 
smoky  red;  the  stars  were  coming  out;  the  wind 
was  mild,  and  seemed  to  fill  her  soul  with  life  from 
the  fountain  of  life,  from  God  himself. 

For  Alice  had  been  learning  from  Barbara — not  to 
think  things,  but  to  feel  realities,  the  reality  of  reed 
things — to  see  truths  themselves.  Often,  when  Mrs. 
Wingfold  could  spare  her,  Barbara  would  take  her 
out  for  a  \valk.  Then  sometimes  as  they  walked 
she  would  quite  forget  her  presence,  and  through 
that  very  forgetting  Alice  learned  much.  When  first 
she  saw  Barbara  lost  in  silent  joy,  and  could  see 
nothing  to  make  her  look  glad,  she  wondered  a 
moment,  then  swiftly  concluded  she  must  be  think- 
ing of  God.  When  she  saw  her  spread  out  her  arms 
as  if  to  embrace  the  wind  that  flowed  to  meet  them, 
then  too  she  wondered,  but  presently  began  to  feel 
what  a  thing  the  wind  was — how  full  of  something 
strange  and  sweet.  She  began  to  learn  that  nothing 
js  dead,  that  there  cannot  be  a  physical  abstraction, 
that  nothing  exists  for  the  sake  of  the  laws  of  its 
phenomena.  She  did  not  put  it  so  to  herself,  I  need 
hardly  say  ;  but  she  was,  in  a  word,  learning  to 
feel  that  the  world  was  alive.  Of  the  three  she 
was  the  merriest  that  night  as  they  went  together 
along  the  quiet  road.  A  little  way  out  of  the  vil- 
lage, Richard  set  her  on  the  mare,  and  walked  by 
her  side,  leading  Miss  Brown.  Such  was  the  tolerably 
sufficient  foundation  for  the  report  that  he  was  seen 
rollicking  with  a  common-looking  lad  and  a  servant 
girl  on  the  high  road,  in  the  immediate  vicinity 
of  Wylder  Hall. 

"  He  is  his  father's  son  !  "  reflected  Lady  Ann. 


THE    QUARRF.L.  599 


"  He's  a  chip  of  the  old  block  !  "  said  Sir  Wilton  to 
himself.  But  he  did  not  approve  of  the  openness  of 
the  thing.     To  let  such  doings  be  seen  was  low  ! 

Presently  fell  an  ugly  light  on  the  affair. 

"By  Jove  !  "  he  said  to  himself,  "it's  that  infernal 
Manson  girl  !  I'll  lay  my  life  on  it !  The  fellow  is 
too  much  of  a  puritan  to  flaunt  his  own  foibles  in  the 
public  eye  ;  but,  hang  him,  he  don't  love  his  father 
enough  not  to  flaunt  his!  Dead  and  buried,  the 
rascal  hauls  them  out  of  their  graves  for  men  to  see ! 
It's  all  the  cursed  socialism  of  his  mother's  relations  ! 
Otherwise  the  fellow  would  be  all  a  father  could 
wish  !  I  might  have  known  it  \  The  Armour  blood 
was  sure  to  break  out !  What  business  has  he  with 
what  his  father  did  before  he  was  born  !  He  was 
nowhere  then,  the  insolent  dog  !  He  shall  do  as  I 
tell  him  or  go  about  his  business — go  and  herd  with 
the  Mansons  and  all  the  rest  of  them  if  he  likes,  and 
be  hanged  to  them  !  " 

He  sat  in  smouldering  rage  for  a  while,  and  then 
again  his  thoughts  took  shape  in  words,  though  not  in 
speech. 

"  How  those  fools  of  Wylders  will  squirm  when  I 
cut  the  rascal  off  with  a  shilling,  and  settle  the  prop- 
erty on  the  man  the  little  lady  refused  1  But  Dick 
will  never  be  such  a  fool  !  He  cannot  reconcile  his 
Puritanism  with  such  brazen-faced  conduct  !  I  shall 
never  make  a  gentleman  of  him  !  He  will  revert  to 
the  original  type  !  It  had  disappeared  in  his  mother  ! 
What's  bred  in  the  bone  will  never  out  of  the  flesh  !  " 

Richard  was  at  the  moment  walking  with  Mr. 
Wingfold  in  the  rector}'-  garden.  They  were  speaking 
of  what  the  Lord  meant  when  he  said  a  inan  must 
leave  all  for  him. 


600  THERE    AND    BACK. 


As  soon  as  he  entered  his  father's  room,  he  saw 
that  something  had  gone  wrong  with  him. 

"What  is  it,  father.?"  he  said. 

"Richard,  sit  down,"  said  Sir  Wilton.  "I  must 
have  a  word  with  you  : — What  young  man  and 
woman  were  you  walking  with  two  nights  ago,  not 
far  from  Wylder  Hall?" 

"My  brother  and  sister,  sir — the  Mansons." 

"  My  God,  I  thought  as  much  !  "  cried  the  baronet, 
and  started  to  his  feet — but  sat  down  again  :  the  fetter 
of  his  gout  pulled  him  back.  "Hold  up  your  right 
hand,"  he  went  on — Sir  Wilton  was  a  magistrate, 
"  and  swear,  so  help  you,  God,  that  you  will  never 
more  in  your  life  speak  one  word  to  either  of  those — 
persons,  or  leave  my  house  at  once." 

"Father,"  said  Richard,  his  voice  trembling  a 
little,  "  I  cannot  obey  you.  To  deny  my  friends  and 
relations,  even  at  your  command,  would  be  to  for- 
sake my  Master.  It  would  be  to  break  the  bonds 
that  bind  men,  God's  children,  together.  " 

"Hold  your  cursed  jargon!  Bonds  indeed  !  Is 
there  no  bond  between  you  and  your  father.' " 

"Believe  me,  father,  I  am  very  sorry,  but  I  cannot 
help  it.  I  dare  not  obey  you.  You  have  been  very 
kind  to  me,  and  I  thank  you  from  my  heart, " 

"  Shut  up,  you  young  hypocrite!  you  have  tongue 
enough  for  three  ! — Come,  I  will  give  you  one  chance 
more  !  Drop  those  persons  you  call  your  brother 
and  sister,  or  I  drop  you. " 

"You  must  drop  me,  then,  father  !  "  said  Richard 
with  a  sigh. 

"  Will  you  do  as  I  tell  you  ?  " 

"  No,  sir.     I  dare  not." 

"Then  leave  the  house." 


THE    QUARREL.  6oi 


Richard  rose. 

"  Good-bye,  sir,"  he  said. 

"Get  out  of  the  house." 

•'  May  I  not  take  my  tools,  sir  ?  " 

"What  tools,  curse  you.?" 

"  I  got  some  to  bind  Lady  Ann's  prayer-book." 

"She's  taken  him  in!  By  Jove,  she's  done  him, 
the  fool  !  She's  been  keeping  him  up  to  it,  to  enrage 
me  and  get  rid  of  him  !  "  said  the  baronet  to  him- 
self. 

"What  do  you  want  them  for.?"'  he  asked,  a  little 
calmer. 

"  To  work  at  my  trade.  If  you  turn  me  out,  I 
must  go  back  to  that." 

"Damn  your  soul  !  it  never  was,  and  never  will  be 
anything  but  a  tradesman's  !  Damn  my  soul,  if  I 
wouldn't  rather  make  young  Manson  my  heir  than 
you  ! — No,  by  Jove,  you  shall  not  have  your  cursed 
tools  !  Leave  the  house.  You  cannot  claim  a  chair- 
leg  in  it !  " 

Richard  bowed,  and  went  ;  got  his  hat  and  stick  ; 
and  walked  from  the  house  with  about  thirty  shillings 
in  his  pocket. 

His  heart  was  like  a  lump  of  lead,  but  he  was 
nowise  dismayed.  He  was  in  no  perplexity  how  to 
live,  Happy  the  man  who  knows  his  hands  the  gift 
of  God,  the  providers  for  his  body  1  I  would  in 
especial  that  teachers  of  righteousness  were  able, 
with  St.  Paul,  to  live  by  their  hands  ! 

Outside  the  lodge-gate  he  paused,  and  stood  in  the 
middle  of  the  road  thinking.  Thus  far  he  had  seen 
his  way,  but  no  farther.  To  which  hand  must  he 
turn  ?  Should  he  go  to  his  grandfather,  or  to  Bar- 
bara? 


6o2  THERE    AND    BACK. 


He  set  out,  plodding  across  the  fields,  for  Wylder 
Hall.     There  was  no  Miss  Brown  for  him  now. 

Miss  Wylder,  they  told  him,  was  in  the  garden. 

She  sat  in  a  summer-house,  reading  a  story.  When 
she  heard  his  step,  she  knew,  from  the  very  sound 
of  it,  that  he  was  discomposed.  Never  was  such  a 
creature  for  interpreting  the  signs  of  the  unseen ! 
Her  senses  were  as  discriminating  as  those  of  wild 
animals  that  have  not  only  to  find  life  but  to  avoid 
death  by  the  keenness  of  their  wits.  She  came  out, 
and  met  him  in  the  dim  green  air  under  a  wide- 
spreading  yew. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Richard.?"  she  said,  looking 
in  his  face  with  anxiety.      "  What  has  gone  wrong  .?  " 

"My  father  has  turned  me  out" 

"  Turned  you  out.''  " 

"Yes.  I  must  swear  never  to  speak  another 
word  to  Alice  or  Arthur,  or  go  about  my  business. 
1  went." 

"Of  course  you  did!"  cried  Barbara,  lifting  her 
dainty  chin  an  inch  higher. 

Then,  after  a  little  pause,  in  which  she  looked  with 
loving  pride  straight  in-to  his  eyes — for  was  he  not  a 
man  after  her  own  brave  big  heart ! — she  resumed  : 

"Well,  it  is  no  worse  for  you  than  before,  and  ever 
so  much  better  for  me  ! — What  are  you  going  to  do, 
Richard.' — There  are  so  many  things  you  could  turn 
to  now  !  " 

"Yes,  but  only  one  I  can  do  well.  I  might  get 
fellows  to  coach,  but  I  should  have  to  wait  too  long 
— and  then  I  should  have  to  teach  what  I  thought 
worth  neither  the  time  nor  the  pay.  I  prefer  to  live 
by  my  hands,  and  earn  leisure  for  something  else." 

"I  like  that,"  said  Barbara.  "Will  it  take  you 
long  to  get  into  the  way  of  your  old  work.? "' 


THE    QUARREL.  603 


"  I  don't  think  it  will, "  answered  Richard;  "and 
I  believe  I  shall  do  better  at  it  now.  I  was  looking- 
at  some  of  it  yesterday  morning-,  and  was  surprised 
I  should  have  been  pleased  with  it.  In  myself  grow- 
ing-, I  have  grown  to  demand  better  work — better 
both  in  idea  and  execution." 

"It  is  horrid  to  have  you  go,"  said  Barbara  ;  "but 
I  will  think  you  up  to  God  every  day,  and  dream 
about  you  every  night,  and  read  about  you  every 
book.  I  wnll  write  to  you,  and  you  will  write  to  me 
— and— and" — she  was  on  the  point  of  crying,  but 
would  not — "and  then  the  old  smell  of  the  leather 
and  the  paste  will  be  so  nice  !  " 

She  broke  into  a  merry  laugh,  and  the  crisis  was 
over. 

They  walked  together  to  the  smithy. 

Fierce  was  the  wrath  of  the  blacksmith.  But  for 
the  presence  of  Barbara,  he  would  have  called  his 
son-in-law  ugly  names.  His  anger  soon  subsided, 
however,  and  he  laughed  at  himself  for  spending 
indignation  on  such  a  man. 

"  I  might  have  known  him  by  this  time  !  "  he  said. 
" — But  just  let  him  come  near  the  smithy  !  "  he  re- 
sumed, and  his  eyes  began  to  flame  again.  "He 
shall  know,  if  he  does,  what  a  blacksmith  thinks  of 
a  baronet ! — What  are  you  going  to  do,  my  son  ?  " 

"  Go  back  to  my  work." 

"Never  to  that  old-wife  trade.?"  cried  the  black- 
smith. "Look  here,  Richard  !"  he  said,  and  bared 
his  upper  arm,  "there's  what  the  anvil  does  !  "  Then 
he  bent  his  shoulders,  and  began  to  wheeze.  "And 
there's  what  the  bookbinding  does  1"  he  continued. 
"  No,  no  ;  you  turn  in  with  me,  and  we'll  show  them 
a  sight ! — a  gentleman  that  can  make  his  living  with 


6o4  THERE    AND    BACK. 


his  own  hands  !  The  country  shall  see  Sir  Wilton 
Lestrange's  heir  a  blacksmith  because  he  wouldn't 
be  a  snob  and  deny  his  own  flesh  and  blood  ! — '  I  saw 
your  son  to-day,  Sir  Wilton— at  the  anvil  with  his 
grandfather!  What  a  fine  fellow  he  do  be  !  Lord, 
how  he  do  fnake  the  sparks  fly  I  ' — If  I  had  liim,  the 
old  sinner,  he  should  see  sparks  that  came  from 
somewhere  else  than  the  anvil  I — You  turn  in  with 
me,  Richard,  and  do  work  fit  for  a  man  !  " 

"Grandfather,"  answered  Richard,  "  I  couldn't  do 
your  work  so  well  as  my  own." 

"  Yes,  you  could.  In  six  weeks  you'll  be  a  better 
smith  than  ever  you'd  be  a  bookbinder.  There's  no 
good  or  bad  in  that  sort  of  soft  thing  !  I'll  make  you 
a  better  blacksmith  than  myself  There!  I  can't 
say  fairer  !  " 

"But  don't  you  think  it  better  not  to  irritate  my 
father  more  than  I  must.?  I  oughtn't  to,  torment 
him.  As  long  as  I  was  here  he  would  fancy  me 
braving  him.  When  I  am  out  of  sight,  he  may  think 
of  me  again  and  want  to  see  me — as  Job  said  his 
maker  would." 

"I  don't  remember,"  said  Barbara.      "Tell  me." 

"  He  says  to  God— I  was  reading  it  the  other  day 
—  'I  wish  you  would  hide  me  in  the  grave  till  you've 
done  being  angry  with  me  !  Then  you  would  want 
to  see  again  the  creature  you  had  made  ;  you  would 
call  me,  and  I  would  answer  ! '  God's  not  like  that, 
of  course,  but  my  father  might  be.  There  is  more 
chance  of  his  getting  over  it,  if  I  don't  trouble  him 
with  sight  or  sound  of  me." 

"Well,  perhaps  you're  right  !  "  said  Simon.  "Oft" 
with  you  to  your  woman's  work  !  and  God  bless 
you  !  " 


CHAPTER  LXIII. 

BARONET    AND    BLACKSMITH. 

Richard  took  Barbara  home,  and  the  same  night 
started  for  London.  Barbara  prayed  him  to  take 
what  money  she  had,  but  he  said  that  by  going-  in 
the  third  class  he  would  have  something  over,  and, 
once  there,  would  begin  to  earn  money  immediately. 

His  aunt  was  almost  beside  herself  for  lack  of 
outlet  to  her  surprise  and  delight  at  seeing  him. 
When  she  heard  his  story,  however,  it  was  plain  she 
took  part  with  his  father,  though  she  was  too  glad  to 
have  her  boy  again  to  say  so.  His  uncle  too  was 
sincerely  glad.  His  work  had  not  been  the  same 
thing  to  him  since  Richard  went ;  and  to  have  him 
again  was  what  he  had  never  hoped.  He  could  not 
help  a  grudge  that  Richard  should  lose  his  position 
for  the  sake  of  such  as  the  Mansons,  but  he  saw  now 
the  principle  involved.  He  saw  too  that,  in  virtue 
of  his  belief  in  God  as  the  father  of  all,  his  nephew 
had  much  the  stronger  sense' of  the  claim  of  man 
upon  man. 

Richard  never  disputed  with  his  uncle  ;  he  but 
suggested,  and  kept  suggesting — in  the  firm  belief 
that  an  honest  mind  must,  sooner  or  later,  open  its 
doors  to  every  truth. 

He  settled  to  his  work  as  if  he  had  never  been 
away  from  it,  and  in  a  fortnight  or  so  could  work 
faster  and  better  than  before.     Soon  he  had  as  much 


6o6  THERE    AND    BACK. 

in  his  peculiar  department  as  he  was  able  to  do,  for 
almost  all  his  old  employers  again  sought  him  His 
story  being  now  no  secret,  they  wondered  he  should 
return  to  his  trade,  but  no  one  thought  he  had  chosen 
to  be  a  workman  because  he  was  not  a  gentleman. 

But  how  changed  was  the  world  to  him  since  the 
time  that  looked  so  far  away  !  With  how  much 
larger  a  life  in  his  heart  would  he  now  sit  in  the 
orchestra  while  the  gracious  forms  of  music  filled  the 
hall,  and  he  seemed  to  see  them  soaring  on  the 
pinions  of  the  birds  of  God,  as  Dante  calls  the  angels, 
or  sweeping  level  in  dance  divine,  like  the  six- 
winged  serpents  of  Isaiah's  vision  high  and  lifted  up 
— all  the  interspaces  filled  with  glow-worms  and  little 
spangled  snakes  of  coruscating  sound  !  He  was  more 
blessed  now  than  even  when  but  to  lift  his  eyes  was 
to  see  the  face  of  Barbara  :  she  was  in  his  faith  and 
hope  now  as  well  as  in  his  love. 

He  had  the  loveliest  of  letters  from  her.  She  in- 
sisted he  should  not  write  oftener  than  once  for  her 
twice  :  his  time  was  worth  more,  she  said,  than 
twice  hers.  Mr.  Wingfold  wrote  occasionally,  and 
Richard  always  answered  within  a  week. 

As  soon  as  his  son  was  gone.  Sir  Wilton  began  to 
miss  him.  He  wished,  first,  that  the  obstinacy  of 
the  rascal  had  not  made  it  necessary  to  give  him 
quite  so  sharp  a  lesson  ;  he  wished,  next,  that  he  had 
given  him  time  to  see  the  reasonableness  of  his  de- 
mand ;  and  at  length,  as  the  days  and  weeks  passed, 
and  not  a  whisper  of  prayer  entered  the  ears  of  the 
family-Baal,  he  began  to  wish  that  .he  had  not  sent 
him  away.  The  desire  to  see  him  grew  a  longing  : 
bis  need  of  him  became  imperative.  Arthur,  who 
now    tried    a   little   to  do   the  work   he  had  before 


BARONET  AND  BLACKSMITH,  607 

declined,  was  the  poorest  substitute  for  Richard;  and 
his  father  kept  thinking  how  differently  Richard  had 
served  him.  He  repented  at  last  as  much  as  was 
possible  to  him,  and  wished  he  had  left  the  rascal  to 
take  his  own  way.  He  tried  to  understand  how  it 
was  that,  anxious  always  to  please  him,  he  yet 
would  not  in  such  a  trifle,  and  that  with  nothing  to 
gain  and  everything  to  lose  by  his  obstinacy.  There 
might  be  conscience  in  it  !  his  mother  certainly  had 
a  conscience  !  But  how  could  the  fool  make  the 
Mansons  a  matter  of  his  conscience  ?  They  were  no 
business  of  his  ! 

He  pretended  to  himself  that  he  had  been  born 
without  a  conscience.  At  the  same  time  he  knew 
very  well  there  were  pigeon-holes  in  his  memory  he 
preferred  not  searching  in;  knew  very  well  he  had 
done  things  which  were  wrong,  things  he  knew  to  be 
wrong  when  he  did  them.  If  he  had  ever  done  a 
thing  because  he  ought  to  do  it ;  if  he  had  ever  ab- 
stained from  doing  a  thing  because  he  ought  not  to 
do  it,  he  would  have  known  he  had  a  conscience. 
Because  he  did  not  obey  his  conscience,  he  would 
rather  believe  himself  without  one.  I  doubt  if  con- 
sciousness ever  exists  without  conscience,  however 
poorly  either  may  be  developed. 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  was  possessed  with 
a  good  longing — namely,  for  his  son  ;  a  fulcrum  was 
at  length  established  which  might  support  leverage 
for  his  uplifting.  He  grew  visibly  grayer,  stooped 
more,  and  became  very  irritable.  Twenty  times  a 
day  he  would  be  on  the  point  of  sending  for  Richard, 
but  twenty  times  a  day  his  pride  checked  him. 

"If  the  rascal  would  make  but  apology  enough  to 
satisfy  a  Frenchman,  I   would  take  him  back  !  "  he 


6o8 


THERE    AND    BACK. 


would  say  to  himself  over  and  over  ;  "but  he's  such  a 
chip  of  the  old  block  ! — so  infernally  independent ! — 
Well,  I  don't  call  it  a  great  fault !  If  I  had  had  a  trade, 
I  should  have  been  just  as  independent  of  my  father  ! 
No,  I  want  no  apology  from  him  !  Let  him  just  say, 
'  Mayn't  I  come  back,  father?  '  and  the  gold  ring  and 
the  wedding  garment  shall  be  out  for  him  directly  !  " 

A  month  after  Richard's  expulsion,  the  baronet 
drove  to  the  smithy,  and  accused  Simon  of  causing 
all  the  mischief.  He  must  send  the  boy  Manson  away, 
he  said  :  he  would  settle  an  annuity  on  the  beggar. 
That  done,  Richard  must  make  a  suitable  apology, 
and  he  would  take  him  back. 

Simon  listened  without  a  word.  He  wanted  to  see 
how  far  he  would  go. 

"  If  you  will  not  oblige  me,"  he  ended,  "  you  shall 
not  have  another  stroke  of  work  from  Mortgrange, 
and  I  will  use  my  influence  to  drive  you  from  the 
county." 

Without  waiting  for  an  answer,  he  turned  to  walk 
from  the  shop.  But  he  did  not  walk.  The  moment 
he  turned,  Simon  took  him  by  the  shoulders  and  ran 
him  right  out  of  the  smithy  up  to  his  carriage,  into 
which,  for  the  footman  had  made  haste  to  open  the 
door,  he  would  have  tumbled  him  neck  and  heels, 
but  that,  gout  and  all,  Sir  Wilton  managed  to  spring 
on  the  step,  and  get  in  without  falling.  In  a  rage 
by  no  means  unnatural,  he  called  to  the  coachman 
to  send  his  lash  about  the  ruffian's  ears.  Simon  burst 
into  a  guffaw,  which  so  startled  the  horses  that  the 
footman  had  to  run  to  their  heads.  In  his  haste  to 
do  so,  he  failed  to  shut  the  door  properly  ;  it  opened 
and  banged,  swinging  this  way  and  that,  as  the  horses 
now  reared,  now  backed,  now   pulled,  and  the  bar- 


BARONET    AND    BLACKSMITH.  609 

onet,  cursing  and  swearing,  was  tossed  about  in  his 
carriage  like  a  dried-up  kernel  in  a  nut.  Simon  at 
length,  with  tears  of  merriment  running  down  his 
red  cheeks,  managed,  in  a  succession  of  gymnastics, 
to  close  the  door. 

"Home,  Peterkin  !  "he shouted,  and  turning  away, 
strode  back  to  his  forge,  whence  immediately  sprang 
upon  the  air  the  merriest  tune  ever  played  by  anvil 
and  hammer  with  a  horse-shoe  between  them — the 
sparks  flying  about  the  musician  like  a  nimbus  of 
embodied  notes.  It  seemed  to  soothe  the  horses, 
for  they  started  immediately  without  further  racket. 

Before  the  next  month  was  over,  the  baronet  was 
again  in  the  smithy — in  a  better  mood  this  time.  He 
made  no  reference  to  his  former  ignominious  dis- 
missal— wanted  only  to  know  if  Simon  had  heard 
from  his  grandson.  The  old  man  answered  that  he 
had :  he  was  well,  happy,  and  busy.  Sir  Wilton 
gave  a  grunt. 

"Why  didn't  he  stay  and  help  you.?" 

"  I  begged  him  to  do  so,"  answered  Simon,  "for 
he  is  almost  as  good  at  the  anvil,  and  quite  as  good 
at  the  shoeing  as  myself  ;  but  he  said  it  would  annoy 
his  father  to  have  him  so  near,  and  he  wouldn't  do  it." 

His  boy's  good  will  made  the  baronet  fidget  and 
swear  to  hide  his  compunction.  But  his  evil  angel 
got  the  upper  hand. 

"The  rascal  knew,"  he  cried,  "  that  nothing  would 
annoy  me  so  much  as  have  him  go  back  to  his  mire 
like  the  washed  sow  !  " 

Perceiving  Simon  look  dangerous,  he  turned  with 

a  hasty  good-morning,  and  made  for  his  carriage, 

casting    more    than    one    uneasy   glance   over    his 

shoulder.     But  the  blacksmith  let  him  depart  in  peace. 

39 


CHAPTER  LXIV. 


THE    BARONET  S    FUNERAL. 


It  was  about  a  year  after  Richard's  return  to  his 
trade,  when  one  morning  the  doctor  at  Barset  was 
roused  by  a  groom,  his  horse  all  speckled  with  foam, 
who,  as  soon  as  he  had  given  his  message*  galloped 
to  the  post-office,  and  telegraphed  for  a  well-known 
London  physician.  A  little  later,  Richard  received 
a  telegram  :  "  Father  paralyzed.  Will  meet  first  train. 
Wingfold. " 

With  sad  heart  he  obeyed  the  summons,  and  found 
■Wingfold  at  the  station. 

"  I  have  just  come  from  the  house,"  he  said.  "  He 
is  still  insensible.  They  tell  me  he  came  to  himself 
once,  just  a  little,  and  murmured  Richard^  but  has 
not  spoken  since." 

"Let  us  go  to  him  !  "  said  Richard. 

"I  fear  they  will  try  to  prevent  you  from  seeing 
him." 

"  They  shall  not  find  it  easy." 

"  I  have  a  trap  outside." 

"Come  along." 

They  reached  Mortgrange,  and  stopped  at  the  lodge. 
Richard  walked  up  to  the  door. 

"  How  is  my  father.? "  he  asked. 

"Much  the  same,  sir,  I  believe." 

"  Is  it  true  that  he  wanted  to  see  me?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  sir." 

"  Is  he  in  his  own  room  ?  " 


THE  baronet's  FUNERAL.  6ll 

"Yes,  sir;  but,  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  the 
man,  "  I  have  my  lady's  orders  to  admit  no  one  !  " 

While  he  spoke,  Richard  passed  him,  and  went 
straight  to  his  father's  room,  which  was  on  the 
ground-floor.  He  opened  the  door  softly,  and  entered. 
His  father  lay  on  the  bed,  with  the  Barset  surgeon 
and  the  London  doctor  standing  over  him.  The  latter 
looked  round,  saw  him,  and  came  to  him. 

"  I  gave  orders  that  no  one  should  be  admitted," 
he  said,  in  a  low  stern  tone. 

"  I  understand  my  father  wished  to  see  me  !  " 
answered  Richard. 

"  He  cannot  see  you." 

"  He  may  come  to  himself  any  moment !  " 

"  He  will  never  come  to  himself,"  returned  the 
doctor. 

"  Then  why  keep  me  out  ?  "  said  Richard. 

The  eyes  of  the  dying  man  opened,  and  Richard 
received  his  last  look.  Sir  Wilton  gave  one  sigh,  and 
death  was  past.  Whether  life  was  come,  God  only, 
and  those  who  watched  on  the  other  side,  knew. 

Lady  Ann  came  in. 

"  The  good  baronet  is  gone  !  "  said  the  physician. 

She  turned  away.  Her  eyes  glided  over  Richard 
as  if  she  had  never  before  seen  him.  He  went  up  to 
the  bed,  and  she  walked  from  the  room. 

When  Richard  came  out,  he  found  Wingfold  where 
he  had  left  him,  and  got  into  the  pony-carriage  beside 
him.     The  parson  drove  off. 

"  His  tale  is  told,"  said  Richard,  in  a  choking 
voice.  "  He  did  not  speak,  and  I  cannot  tell  whether 
he  knew  me,  but  I  had  his  last  look,  and  that  is 
something.  I  would  have  been  a  good  son  to  him  if 
he  had  let  me — at  least  I  would  have  tried  to  be. " 


6l2  THERE    AND    BACK. 


He  sat  silent,  thinking  what  he  might  have  done 
for  him.  Perhaps  he  would  not  have  died  if  he  had 
been  with  him,  he  thought. 

"It  is  best,"  said  Wingfold.  "We  cannot  say 
anything  would  he  best,  but  we  must  say  everything 
is  best." 

"I  think  I  understand  you,"  said  Richard.  "But 
oh  how  I  would  have  loved  him  if  he  would  have 
let  me  !  " 

"And  how  you  will  love  him!"  said  Wingfold, 
"  for  he  will  love  you.  They  are  getting  him  ready 
to  let  you  now.  I  think  he  is  loving  you  in  the  dark- 
ness. He  had  begun  to  love  you  long  before  he 
went.  But  he  was  the  slave  of  the  nature  he  had 
enfeebled  and  corrupted.  I  hope  endlessly  for  him 
— though  God  only  knows  how  long  it  may  take, 
even  after  the  change  is  begun,  to  bring  men  like  him 
back  to  their  true  selves. — But  surely,  Richard,"  he 
crieti,  bethinking  himself,  and  pulling  up  his  ponies, 
' '  your  right  place  is  at  Mortgrange — at  least  so  long 
as  what  is  left  of  your  father  is  lying  in  the  house  !  " 

"Yes,  no  doubt  !  and  I  did  think  whether  I  ought 
not  to  assert  myself,  and  remain  until  my  father's 
will  was  read  ;  but  I  concluded  it  better  to  avoid  the 
possibility  of  anything  unpleasant.  I  cannot  of 
course  yield  my  right  to  be  chief  mourner.  I  think 
my  father'would  not  wish  me  to  do  so." 

"I  am  sure  he  would  not. — Then,  till  the  funeral, 
you  \vill  stay  with  us  !  "  concluded  the  parson,  as  he 
drove  on. 

"No,  I  thank  you,"  answered  Richard;  "I  must 
be  at  my  grandfather's.  I  will  go  there  when  I  have 
seen  Barbara." 

On  the  day  of  the  funeral  no  one  disputed  Richard's 


THE  baronet's  FUNERAL.  613 

right  to  the  place  he  took,  and  when  it  was  over,  he 
joined  the  company  assembled  to  hear  the  late  baro- 
net's will.  It  was  dated  ten  years  before,  and  gave 
the  two  estates  of  Mortgrange  and  Cinqmer  to  his 
son,  Arthur  Lestrange.  There  vi^as  in  it  no  allusion 
to  the  possible  existence  of  a  son  by  his  first  wife. 

Richard  rose.     The  lawyer  rose  also. 

'•  I  am  sorry,  Sir  Richard,"  he  said,  "  that  we  can 
find  no  later  will.  There  ought  to  have  been  some 
provision  for  the  support  of  the  title." 

"  My  father  died  suddenly,"  answered  Richard, 
"and  did  not  know  of  my  existence  until  about  five 
years  ago. " 

"All  I  can  say  is,  I  am  very  sorry." 

"Do  not  let  it  trouble  you,"  returned  Richard. 
"  It  matters  little  to  me  ;  I  am  independent." 

"I  am  very  glad  to  hear  it.  I  had  imagined  it 
otherwise." 

"A  man  with  a  good  trade  and  a  good  education 
must  be  independent  !  " 

"Ah,  I  understand! — But  your  brother  will,  as  a 
matter  of  course — .  I  shall  talk  to  him  about  it. 
The  estate  is  quite  equal  to  it." 

"The  estate  shall  not  be  burdened  with  me,"  said 
Richard  with  a  smile.  "I  am  the  only  one  of  the 
family  able  to  do  as  he  pleases." 

"  But  the  title,  Sir  Richard  !  " 

"The  title  must  look  after  itself.  If  I  thought  it 
in  the  smallest  degree  dependent  on  money  for  its 
dignity,  I  would  throw  it  in  the  dirt.  If  it  means 
anything,  it  means  more  than  money,  and  can  stand 
without  it.  If  it  be  an  honor,  please  God,  I  shall 
keep  it  honorable.  Whether  I  shall  set  it  over  my 
shop,  remains  to  be  considered. — Good-morning!" 


6 14  THERE    AND    BACK. 


As  he  left  the  room  a  servant  met  him  with  the 
message  that  Lady  Ann  wished  to  see  him  in  the 
library. 

Cold  as  ever,  but  not  colder  than  always,  she  poked 
her  long-  white  hand  at  him. 

"This  is  awkward  for  you,  Richard,"  she  said, 
"but  more  awkward  still  for  Arthur.  Mortgrange  is  at 
your  service  until  you  find  some  employment  befit- 
ting your  position.  You  must  not  forget  what  is  due 
to  the  family.  It  is  a  great  pity  you  offended  your 
father. " 

Richard  was  silent. 

' '  He  left  it  therefore  in  my  hands  to  do  as  I  thought 
fit.  Sir  Wilton  did  not  die  the  rich  man  people 
imagined  him,  but  I  am  ready  to  place  a  thousand 
pounds  at  your  disposal." 

"I  should  be  sorry  to  make  the  little  he  has  left 
you  so  much  less,"  answered  Richard. 

"As  you  please,"  returned  her  ladyship. 

"  I  should  like  to  have  just  a  word  with  my  sister 
Theodora,"  said  Richard. 

"I  doubt  if  she  will  see  you. — Miss  Malliver,  will 
you  take  Mr.  Tuke  to  the  schoolroom,  and  then 
inquire  whether  Miss  Lestrange  is  able  to  leave  her 
room.  You  will  stay  with  her  :  she  is  far  from  well. 
— Perhaps  you  had  better  go  and  inquire  first.  Mr. 
*!  Tuke  will  wait  you  here." 

I\Iiss  Malliver  came  from  somewhere,  and  left  the 
room. 

Richard  felt  very  angry  :  was  he  not  to  see  his 
father's  daughter  except  in  the  presence  of  that 
woman  ?     But  he  said  nothing. 

"There  is  just  one  thing, "  resumed  her  ladyship, 
"upon  which,  if  only  out  of  respect  to  the  feelings  of 


THE  baronet's  FUNERAL.  615 

my  late  husband,  I  feel  bo^md  to  insist ; — it  is,  that, 
while  in  this  neighborhood,  you  will  be  careful  as  to 
what  company  you  show  yourself  in.  You  will  not, 
I  trust,  pretend  ignorance  of  my  meaning,  and  cause 
me  the  pain  of  having  to  be  more  explicit !  " 

Richard  was  struck  dumb  with  indignation — and 
remained  dumb  from  the  feeling  that  he  could  not 
condescend  to  answer  her  as  she  deserved.  Ere  he 
had  half  recovered  himself,  she  had  again  resumed. 

"If  the  title  were  receded  to  the  property,"  she 
said,  as  if  talking  to  herself,  "it  might  be  a  matter 
for  more  material  consideration." 

"  Did  your  ladyship  address  me?"  said  Richard. 

"  If  you  choose  to  understand  what  I  mean. — But 
I  speak  with  too  much  delicacy,  I  fear.  Competisa- 
iion  it  could  be  only  by  courtesy. — Suppose  I  referred 
to  the  court  of  chancery  my  grave  doubts  of  your 
story .? " 

"  My  father  has  acknowledged  me  1  " 

"And  repudiated; — sent  you  from  the  house — left 
you  to  pursue  your  trade — bequeathed  you  nothing  ! 
Everybody  knows  your  father — my  late  husband,  I 
mean— would  risk  anything  for  my  annoyance, 
though,  thank  God,  he  dared  not  attempt  to  push 
injury  beyond  the  grave  ! — he  well  knew  the  danger 
of  that  !  Had  he  really  believed  you  his  son,  do  you 
imagine  he  would  have  left  you  penniless .?  Would 
he  not  have  been  rejoiced  to  put  you  over  Mr. 
Lestrange 's  head,  if  only  to  wring  the  heart  of  his 
mother.?" 

"The  proofs  that  satisfied  him  remain." 
"The  testimony,  that  is,  of  those  most  interested 
in  the  result — whose  very  case  is   a   confession  of 
felony  ! " 


6l6  THERE    AND    BACK. 

"A  confession,  if  you  will,  that  my  own  aunt  was 
the  nurse  that  carried  me  away — of  which  there  are 
proofs. " 

"  Has  any  one  seen  those  proofs  ?  " 

"  My  father  has  seen  them,  Lady  Ann." 

*'  You  mean  Sir  Wilton  .''  " 

"I  do.      He  accepted  them." 

"  Has  he  left  any  document  to  that  effect.? " 

"  Not  that  I  know  of." 

"Who  presented  those  proofs,  as  you  call  them.?  " 

"I  told  Sir  Wilton  where  they  had  been  hidden, 
and  tog-ether  we  found  them." 

' '  Where  ?  " 

"In  the  room  that  was  the  nursery." 

"Which  you  occupied  for  months  while  working 
at  your  trade  in  the  house,  and  for  weeks  again 
before  Sir  Wilton  dismissed  you  !  " 

"Yes,"  answered  Richard,  who  saw  very  well 
what  she  was  driving  at,  but  would  not  seem  to  under- 
stand before  she  had  fully  disclosed  her  intent. 

"And  where  you  had  opportunity  to  place  what 
you  chose  at  your  leisure  ! — Excuse  me  ;  I  am  only 
laying  before  you  what  counsel  would  lay  before  the 
court." 

"You  wish  me  to  understand,  I  suppose,  that  you 
regard  me  as  an  impostor,  and  believe  I  put  the  things, 
for  support  of  my  aunt's  evidence,  where  my  father 
and  I  found  them  !  " 

"  I  do  not  say  so.  I  merely  endeavor  to  make  you 
see  how  the  court  would  regard  the  affair — how  much 
appearances  would  be  against  you.  At  the  same 
time,  I  confess  I  have  all  along  had  grave  doubts  of 
the  story.  You,  of  course,  may  have  been  deceived  as 
well  as  your  father — I  mean  the  late  baronet,  my  hus- 


THE  baronet's  FUNERAL.  617 

band ;  but  in  any  case,  I  will  not  admit  you  to  be 
what  you  call  yourself,  until  you  are  declared  such 
by  the  law  of  the  land.  I  will,  however,  make  a  pro- 
posal to  you — and  no  ungenerous  one  : — Pledge  your- 
self to  make  no  defence,  if,  for  form's  sake,  legal 
proceedings  should  be  judged  desirable,  and  in  lieu 
of  the  possible  baronetcy — for  I  admit  the  bare  possi- 
bility of  the  case,  if  tried,  being  given  against  us —I 
will  pay  you  five  thousand  pounds.  It  would  cost 
us  less  to  try  the  case,  no  doubt,  but  the  thing  would 
at  best  be  disagreeable.— Understand  I  do  not  speak 
without  advice  !  " 

"  Plainly  you  do  not !  "  assented  Richard.  "  But," 
he  continued,  "  let  me  placq  one  thing  before  your 
ladyship  :  To  do  as  you  ask  me,  would  be  to  in- 
dorse your  charge  against  my  father,  that  he  acknowl- 
edged me,  that  is,  he  lied,  to  give  you  annoyance  ! 
That  is  enough.  But  I  have  the  same  objection  in 
respect  of  my  uncle  and  aunt,  of  whom  you  propose 
to  make  liars  and  conspirators  ! " 

He  turned  to  the  door. 

"You  will  consider  it.?"  said  her  ladyship  in  her 
stateliest  yet  softest  tone. 

"I  will.  I  shall  continue  to  consider  it  the  worst 
insult  you  could  have  offered  my  father,  your  late 
husband.  Thank  God  he  was  my  mother's  husband 
first  !  " 

"  What  am  I  to  understand  by  that  ?  " 

"  Whatever  your  ladyship  chooses,  except  that  I 
will  not  hold  any  farther  communication  with  you 
on  the  matter." 

"  Then  you  mean  to  dispute  the  title  ?  " 

"I  decline  to  say  what  I  mean  or  do  not  mean  to 
do." 


6l8  THERE    AND    BACK. 


Lady  Ann  rose  to  ring  the  bell. 
Miss  Malliver  met  Richard  in  the  doorway.     He 
turned. 

"I  am  going  to  bid  Theodora  good-bye,"  he  said, 
"You  shall  do  no  such  thing  !  "  cried  her  ladyship. 
Richard  flew  up  the  stair,  and,  believing  Miss  Mal- 
liver had  not  gone  to  his  sister,  went  straight  to  her 
room. 

The  moment  Theodora  saw  him,  .she  sprang  from 
the  bed  where  she  had  lain  weeping,  and  threw  her- 
self into  his  arms.  He  was  the  only  one  who  had 
ever  made  her  feel  what  a  man  might  be  to  a  woman  ! 
He  told  her  he  had  come  to  bid  her  good-bye.  She 
looked  wild. 

'.'But  you're  not  going  really — for  altogether.?" 
she  said. 

"My  dear  sister,  what  else  can  I  do.?  Nobody 
here  wants  me  !  " 

"  Indeed,  Richard,  I  do  !  " 

"I  know  you  do — and  the  time  will  come  when 
you  shall  have  me  ;  but  you  would  not  have  me  live 
where  I.  am  not  loved  !  " 

"  Richard  !  "  she  cried,  with  a  burst  of  indignation, 
the  first,  I  fancy,  she  had  ever  felt,  or  at  least  given 
way  to,  "  you  are  the  only  gentleman  in  the  family  !  " 
Richard  laughed,  and  Theodora  dried  her  eyes. 
Miss  Malliver  was  near  enough  to  be  able  to  report, 
and  the  poor  girl  had  a  bad  time  of  it  in  conse- 
quence. 

"I  will  not  trouble  Arthur,"  said  Richard.  "Say 
good-bye  to  him  for  me,  and  give  him  my  love. 
Please  tell  him  that,  although  all  I  had  was  my 
father's,  yet,  as  between  him  and  me.  Miss  Brown  is 
mine,  and  I  expect  him  to  send  her  to  Wylder  Hall. 
Good-bye  again  to  my  dear  sister  !     I  leave  a  bit  of 


THE  BARONETS  FUNERAL.  619 

my  heart  in  the  house,  where  I  know  it  will   not  be 
trampled  on  !  " 

Theodora  could  not  speak.  Her  only  answer  was 
another  embrace,  and  they  parted. 

Richard  went  to  see  Barbara,  and  found  her  at  the 
parsonage. 

"What  an  opportunity  you  have,"  said  Wingfold, 
'"of  maintaining-  before  the  world  the  honor  of 
work  !  The  man  who  makes  a  thing  exist  that  did  not 
exist,  or  who  sets  anything  right  that  had  gone  wrong, 
must  be  more  worthy  than  he  who  only  consumes 
what  exists,  or  helps  things  to  remain  wrong  !  " 

"But,"  suggested  Barbara,  with  her  usual  keen- 
ness, "  are  you  not  now  encouraging  him  to  seek  the 
praise  of  men  ?  To  seek  it  for  a  good  thing,  is  the 
more  contemptible." 

"  There  is  little  praise  to  begotfrom  men  for  that," 
said  Wingfold  ;  "and  I  am  sure  Richard  does  not 
seek  any.  He  would  help  men  to  see  that  the  man 
who  serves  his  neighbor,  is  the  man  whom  the  Lord 
of  the  universe  honors.  An  idle  man,  or  one  busy 
only  for  himself,  is  hke  a  lump  of  refuse  floating  this 
way  and  that  in  the  flux  and  reflux  of  the  sewer-tide 
of  the  world.  Were  Richard  lord  of  lands  it  would 
be  absurd  of  him  to  give  his  life  to  bookbinding  ;  that 
would  be  to  desert  his  neighbor  on  those  lands  ;  but 
what  better  can  he  do  now  than  follow  the  trade  by 
which  he  may  at  once  earn  his  living .?  To  omit  the 
question  of  possibility, — suppose  he  read  for  the  bar, 
would  that  bring  him  closer  to  humanity.?  Would  it 
be  a  diviner  mode  of  life.?  Is  it  a  more  honorable 
thing  to  win  a  cause — perhaps  for  the  wrong  man — 
than  to  preserve  an  old  and  valuable  book.?  Will  a 
man  rank  higher  in  the  kingdom  that  shall  not  end, 


620  THERE    AND    BACK. 


because  he  has  again  and  again  rendered  unrighteous- 
ness triumphant?  Would  Richard's  mind  be  as  free 
in  chambers  as  in  the  workshop  to  search  into  truth, 
or  as  keen  to  suspect  its  covert?  Would  he  sit  closer 
to  the  well-springs  of  thought  and  aspiration  in  a  bar- 
rister's library,  than  among  the  books  by  which  he 
wins  his  bread  ?  " 

With  eternity  before  them,  and  God  at  the  head  and 
the  heart  of  the  universe,  Richard  and  Barbara  did 
not  believe  in  separation  any  more  than  in  death.  He 
in  London  and  she  at  Wylder  Hall,  they  w^ere  far  more 
together  than  most  unparted  pairs. 

Wingfold  set  himself  to  keep  Barbara  busy,  giving 
her  plenty  to  read  and  plenty  of  work  :  her  waiting 
should  be  no  loss  of  time  to  her  if  he  could  help  it ! 
Among  other  things,  he  set  her  to  teach  his  boy  where 
she  thought  herself  much  too  ignorant :  he  held,  not 
only  that  to  teach  is  the  best  way  to  learn,  but  that  the 
imperfect  are  the  best  teachers  of  the  imperfect.  He 
thought  this  must  be  why  the  Lord  seems  to  regard 
with  so  much  indifference  the  many  falsehoods  uttered 
of  and  for  him.  When  a  man,  he  said,  agonized  to  ^.^ 
get  into  other  hearts  the  thing  dear  to  his  own,  the 
false  intellectual  or  even  rrioral  forms  in  which  his 
ignorance  and  the  crudity  of  his  understanding  com- 
pelled him  to  embody  it,  would  not  render  its  truth 
of  none  effect,  but  might,  on  the  contrary,  make  its 
reception  possible  where  a  truer  presentation  would 
stick  fast  in  the  doorway. 

He  made  Richard  promise  to  take  no  important 
step  for  a  year  without  first  letting  him  know.  He  was 
anxious  he  should  have  nothing  to  undo  because  of 
what  the  packet  committed  to  his  care  might  con- 
tain. 


CHAPTER  LXV. 


THE    PACKET. 


The  day  so  often  in  Wingfold's  thought  arrived  at 
last — the  anniversary  of  the  death  of  Sir  Wilton.  He 
rose  early,  his  mind  anxious,  and  his  heart  troubled 
that  his  mind  should  be  anxious,  and  set  out  for 
London  by  the  first  train.  Arrived,  he  sought  at 
once  the  office  of  Sir  Wilton's  lawyer,  and  when  at 
last  Mr.  Bell  appeared,  begged  him  to  witness  the 
opening  of  the  packet.  Mr.  Bell  broke  the  seal  him- 
self, read  the  baronet's  statement  of  the  request  he 
had  made  to  Wingfold,  'and  then  opened  the  inclosed 
packet. 

"  A  most  irregular  proceeding  !  "  he  exclaimed — as 
well  he  might  :  his  late  client  had  committed  to  the 
keeping  of  the  clergyman  of  another  parish  the  will, 
signed  and  properly  witnessed,  which  Mr.  JBell  had 
last  drawn  up  for  him,  and  of  which,  as  it  was  no- 
where discoverable,  he  had  not  doubted  the  destruc- 
tion !  Here  it  was,  devising  and  bequeathing  his 
whole  property,  real  and  personal,  exclusive  only  of 
certain  legacies  of  small  account,  to  Richard  Les- 
trange,  formerly  known  as  Richard  Tuke,  reputed 
son  of  John  and  Jane  Tuke,  born  Armour,  but  in 
reality  sole  son  of  Wilton  Arthur  Lestrange,  of  Mort- 
grange  and  Cinqmer,  Baronet,  and  Robina  Armour 
his  wife,  daughter  of  Simon  Armour,  Blacksmith, 
born  in  lawful  wedlock  in  the  house  of  Mortgrange, 


622  THERE    AND    BACK. 


in  the  year  i8 — ! — and  so  worded,  at  the  request  of 
Sir  Wilton,  that  even  should  the  law  declare  him  sup- 
posititious, the  property  must  yet  be  his  ! 

"This  will  be  a  terrible  blow  to  that  proud 
woman!"  said  Mr.  Bell.  "You  must  prepare  her 
for  the  shock  !  " 

"  Prepare  Lady  Ann  1 "  exclaimed  Wingfold.  "  Be- 
lieve me,  she  is  in  no  danger  !  An  earthquake  would 
not  move  her." 

"I  must  see  her  lawyer  at  once  !  "  said  I\Ir.  Bell, 
rising. 

"  Let  me  have  the  papers,  please,"  said  Wingfold. 
"  Sir  Wilton  did  not  tell  me  to  bring  them  to  you.  I 
must  take  them  to  Sir  Richard." 

"  Then  you  do  not  wish  me  to  move  in  the  matter.?  " 

"I  shall  advise  Sir  Richard  to  put  the  affair  in  your 
hands  ;  but  he  must  do  it ;   I  have  not  the  power." 

"You  are  very  right.  L  shall  be  here  till  five 
o'clock." 

"  I  hope  to  be  with  you  long  before  that !  " 

It  took  Wingfold  an  hour  to  find  Richard.  He  heard 
the  news  without  a  word,  but  his  eyes  flashed,  and 
Wingfold  knew  he  thought  of  Barbara  and  his  mother 
and  the  Mansons.     Then  his  face  clouded. 

"It  will  bring  trouble  on  the  rest  of  my  father's 
family  !  "  he  said. 

"  Not  upon  all  of  them,"  returned  Wingfold  ;  "  and 
you  have  it  in  your  power  to  temper  the  trouble. 
But  I  beg  you  will  not  be  hastily  generous,  and  do 
what  you  may  regret,  finding  it  for  the  good  of  none. " 

"I  will  think  well  before  I  do  anything," 
answered  Richard.  "But  there  may  be  another 
will  yet  1  " 

"Of  course  there  may  !     No  one  can  tell.      In  the 


THE    PACKET.  623 


meantime  we  must  be  guided  by  appearances. 
Come   with  me  to   Mr.    Bell." 

"  I  must  see  my  mother  first." 

He  found  her  ironing-  a  shirt  for  him,  and  told  her 
the  news.  She  received  them  quietly.  So  many 
changes  had  got  both  her  and  Richard  into  a  sober 
way  of  expecting.  And  yet  here  was  accomplished 
the  very  thing  for  which  Jane  Tuke  had  lived  and 
hoped  all  these  years.  Her  sister — despised  and  un- 
loved by  the  man  who  had  given  her  his  name  but 
not  his  heart — was  avenged.  The  pride  of  Lady 
Ann,  whom  from  that  first  icy  interview  Jane  had 
hated  as  she  had  feared,  would  have  its  downfall 
and  the  reward  of  virtue,  so  often  delayed  in  the 
world,  at  last  would  come.  Jane  would  have  been 
more  than  mortal  had  she  not  secretly  rejoiced  at 
this  new  development  of  affairs,  and  yet  she  was 
quiet. 

They  went  to  Mr.  Bell,  and  Richard  begged  him 
to  do  what  he  judged  necessary.  Mr.  Bell  at  once 
communicated  with  Lady  Ann's  lawyer,  and  requested 
him  to  inform  her  ladyship  that  Sir  Richard  would 
call  upon  her  the  next  day. 

Mr.  Wingfold  accompanied  him  to  Mortgrange. 
Lady  Ann  received  them  with  perfect  coolness. 

"You  are,  I  trust,  aware  of  the  cause  of  my  visit, 
Lady  Ann  ?  "  said  Richard. 

"  I  am." 

"  May  I  ask  what  you  propose  to  do  ?  " 

"That,  excuse  me,  is  my  affair.  It  lies  with  me 
to  ask  you  what  provision  you  intend  making  for 
Sir  Wilton's  family." 

"Allow  me.  Lady  Ann,  to  take  the  lesson  you 
have  given  me,  and  answer,  that  is  my  affair." 


624  THERE    AND    BACK. 

She  saw  she  had  made  a  mistake. 

"  For  my  part,"  she  returned,  "  I  should  not  object 
to  remaining  in  the  house,  were  I  but  assured  that 
my  daughters  should  be  in  no  danger  of  meeting 
improper  persons." 

"  It  would  be  no  pleasure,  Lady  Ann,  to  either  of 
us  to  be  so  near  the  other.  Our  ways  of  thinking 
are  too  much  opposed.  I  venture  to  suggest  that 
you  should  occupy  your  jointure-house." 

"  I  will  do  as  I  see  fit." 

"You  must  find  another  home." 

Lady  Ann  left  the  room,  and  the  next  week  the 
house,  betaking  herself  to  her  own,  which  was  not 
far  off,  in  the  park  at  Cinqmer,  the  smaller  of  the 
two  estates. 

The  week  following,  Richard  went   to  see  Arthur. 

"Now,  Arthur,"  he  said,  "let  us  be  frank  with 
each  other  !  I  am  not  your  enemy.  I  am  bound  to 
do  the  best  I  can  for  you  all, 

"When  you  thought  the  land  was  yours,  I  had  a 
trade  to  fall  back  upon.  Now  that  the  land  proves 
mine,  you  have  no  trade,  or  other  means  of  making 
a  livelihood.  If  you  will  be  a  brother,  you  will 
accept  what  I  offer  :  I  will  make  over  to  youfor  your 
life-time,  but  without  power  to  devise  it,  this  estate 
of  Cinqmer,  burdened  with  the  payment  of  five 
hundred  a  year  to  your  sister  Theodora  till  her 
marriage." 

Arthur  was  glad  of  the  gift,  yet  did  not  accept  it 
graciously.  The  disposition  is  no  rare  one  that  not 
only  gives  grudgingly,  but  receives  grudgingly.  The 
man  imagines  he  shields  his  independence  by  not 
seeming  pleased.  To  show  yourself  pleased  is  to 
confess    obligation  !     Do   not  manifest   pleasure,  do 


THE    PACKET.  625 

not  acknowledge  favor,  and  you  keep  your  freedom 
like  a  man  ! 

"I  cannot  see,"  said  Arthur,  " — of  course  it  is 
very  kind  of  you,  and  all  that !  you  wouldn't  have 
compliments  bandied  between  brothers  ! — but  I 
should  like  to  know  why  the  land  should  not  be 
mine  to  leave.      I  might  have  children,  you  know  !  " 

"And  I  might  have  more  children!"  laughed 
Richard.  "But  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  it. 
The  thing  is  this  :  .  the  land  itself  I  could  give  out 
and  out,  but  the  land  has  the  people.  God  did  not 
give  us  the  land  for  our  own  sakes  only,  but  for 
theirs  too.  The  men  and  women  upon  it  are  my 
brothers  and  sisters,  and  I  have  to  see  to  them. 
Now  I  know  that  you  are  liked  by  our  people,  and 
that  you  have  claims  to  be  liked  by  them,  and  there- 
fore believe  you  will  consider  them  as  well  as  your- 
self or  the  land — though  at  the  same  time  I  shall 
protect  them  with  the  terms  of  the  deed.  But 
suppose  at  your  death  it  should  go  to  Percy  !  Should 
I  not  then  feel  that  I  had  betrayed  my  people,  a 
very  Judas  of  landlords .''  Never  fellow-creature  of 
mine  will  I  put  in  the  danger  of  a  scoundrel  like 
him  !  " 

"He  is  my  brother  !  " 

"And  mine.  I  know  him  ;  I  was  at  Oxford  with 
him  !  Not  one  foothold  shall  he  ever  have  on  land 
of  mine  !  When  he  wants  to  work,  let  him  come  to 
me — not  till  then  !  " 

"You  will  not  say  that  to  my  mother ?  " 

"I  will  say  nothing  to  your  mother. — Do  you 
accept  my  offer  ?  " 

"I  will  think  over  it." 

"Do,"  said  Richard,  and  turned  to  go. 
40 


626  THERE    AND    BACK. 

"Will  you  not  settle  something-  on  Victoria?"  said 
Arthur. 

"We  shall  see  what  she  turns  out  by  the  time  she 
is  of  age  1     I  don't  want  to  waste  money  !  " 

"What  do  you  mean  by  wasting  money?" 

"Giving  it  where  it  will  do  no  good." 

"  God  gives  to  the  bad  as  well  as  the  good  ! " 
^  "It  is  one  thing  to  give  to  the  bad,  and  another  to 
give  where  it  will  do  no  good.  God  knows  the  end- 
less result ;  I  should  know  by.  the  first  link  of  its 
chain.  I  must  act  by  the  knowledge  granted  me. 
God  may  give  money  in  punishment :  should  I  dare 
do  that  ?  " 

"Well,  you're  quite  beyond  me  !  " 

"Never  mind,  then.  What  you  and  I  have  to  do 
is  to  be  friends,  and  work  together.  You  will  find  I 
mean  well  !  " 

* '  I  believe  you  do,  Richard  ;  but  we  don't  somehow 
seem  to  be  in  the  same  world." 

"If  we  are  true,  that  will  not  keep  us  apart.  If  we 
both  work  for  the  good  of  the  people,  we  must  come 
together." 

"To  tell  you  the  truth,  Richard,  knowing  you  had 
given  me  the  land,  I  could  not  put  up  with  interfe- 
rence. I  am  afraid  we  should  quarrel,  and  then  I 
should  seem  ungrateful." 

"What  would  you  say  to  our  managing  the  estates 
together  for  a  year  or  two?  Would  not  that  be  the 
way  to  understand  each  other  ?  " 

"  Perhaps.     I  must  think  about  it." 

"That  is  right.  Only  don't  let  us  begin  with  sus- 
picion. You  did  me  more  than  one  kindness  not 
knowing  I  was  your  brother  1  And  you  sent  back 
Miss  Brown  !  " 


THE    PACKET.  627 


"  That  was  mere  honesty." 

"Strictly  considered,  it  was  more.  My  father  had 
a  right  to  take  the  mare  from  me,  and  at  his  death 
she  came  into  your  possession.  I  thank  you  for 
sending  her  to  Barbara." 

Arthur  turned  away. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  said  Richard,  "  Barbara  loved 
me  when  I  was  a  bookbinder,  and  promised  to  marry 
me  thinking  me  base-born.  I  am  sorry,  but  there  is 
no  blame  to  either  of  us.  I  had  my  bad  time  then, 
and  your  good  time  is,  I  trust,  coming.  I  did  noth- 
ing to  bring  about  the  change.  I  did  think  once 
whether  I  had  not  better  leave  all  to  you,  and  keep 
to  my  trade  ;  but  I  saw  that  I  had  no  right  to  do  so, 
because  duties  attended  the  property  which  I  was 
better  able  for  than  you. " 

"I  believe  every  word  you  say,  Richard!  You 
are  nobler  than  I. " 


CHAPTER  LXVI. 


BARBARA  S  DREAM. 


Mr.  Wylder  could  not  well  object  to  Sir  Richard 
Lestrange  on  the  g-round  that  his  daughter  had  loved 
him  before  she  or  her  father  knew  his  position  the 
same  he  was  coveting  for  her;  and  within  two 
months  they  were  married.  Lady  Ann  was  invited 
but  did  not  go  to  the  wedding  ;  Arthur,  Theodora, 
and  Victoria  did  ;  Percy  was  not  invited. 

Neither  bride  nor  bridegroom  seeing  any  sense  in 
setting  out  on  ajourney  the  moment  they  were  free 
to  be  at  home  together,  they  went  straight  from  the 
church  to  Mortgrange. 

When  they  entered  the  hall  which  had  so  moved 
Richard's  admiration  the  first  time  he  saw  it,  he  stood 
for  a  moment  lost  in  thought.  When  he  came  to 
himself,  Barbara  had  left  him  ;  but  ere  he  had  time 
to  wonder,  such  a  burst  of  organ  music  filled  the 
place  as  might  have  welcomed  one  that  had  over- 
come the  world.  He  stood  entranced  for  a  minute, 
then  hastened  to  the  gallery,  where  he  found  Barbara 
at  the  instrument. 

"  What  !  "  he  cried  in  astonishment;  "you,  Bar- 
bara !  you  play  like  that  !  " 

"I  wanted  to  be  worth  something  to  you,  Rich- 
ard. " 

"  Oh,  Barbara,  you  are  a  queen  at  giving  !  I  was 
well  named,  for  you  were  coming  !  I  am  Richard 
indeed  ! — oh,  so  rich  !  " 


Barbara's  dream.  629 


In  the  evening  they  went  out  into  the  park.  I'lie 
moon  was  rising.  The  sunlight  was  not  quite  gone. 
Her  Hght  mingled  with  the  light  that  gave  it  her. 

"Do  you  know  that  lovely  passage  in  the  Book  of 
Baruch  }  "  asked  Richard. 

"  What  book  is  that  ?  "  returned  Barbara.  "  It  can't 
be  in  the  Bible,  surely  ?  " 

"  It  is  in  the  Apocrypha — which  is  to  me  very 
much  in  the  Bible !  I  think  I  can  repeat  it.  I 
haven't  a  good  memory,  but  some  things  stick  fast." 

But  in  the  process  of  recalling  it,  Richard's  thoughts 
wandered,  and  Baruch  was  forgotten. 

"This  dying  of  Apollo  in  the  arms  of  Luna,"  he 
said,  "  this  melting  of  the  radiant  god  into  his  own 
pale  shadow,  always  reminds  me  of  the  poverty- 
stricken,  wasted  and  sad,  yet  lovely  Elysium  of  the 
pagans :  so  little  consolation  did  they  gather  from 
the  thought  of  it,  that  they  longed  to  lay  their  bodies, 
not  in  the  deep,  cool,  far-off  shadow  of  grove  or 
cave,  but  by  the  ringing  roadside,  where  live  feet,  in 
two  meeting,  mingling,  parting  tides,  ever  came  and 
went ;  where  chariots  rushed  past  in  hot  haste,  or 
moved  stately  by  in  jubilant  procession  ;  where  at 
night  lonely  forms  would  steal  through  the  city  of 
the  silent,  with  but  the  moon  to  see  them  go,  bent 
on  ghastly  conference  with  witch  or  enchanter  ; 
and " 

"Where  are  you  going,  Richard  ?  Please  take  me 
with  you.     I  feel  as  if  I  were  lost  in  a  wood  !  " 

"What  I  meant  to  say,"  replied  Richard,  with  a 
little  laugh,  "  was — how  different  the  moonlit  shadow 
land  of  those  people  from  the  sunny  realm  of  the 
radiant  Christ !  Jesus  rose  again  because  he  was 
true,  and  death  had  no  part  in    him.     This  worlds 


630  THERE    AND    BACK. 

day  is  but  the  moonlight  of  his  world.  The  shadow- 
man,  who  knows  neither  whence  he  came  nor  whither 
he  is  going,  calls  the  upper  world  the  house  of  the 
dead,  being  himself  a  ghost  that  wanders  in  its  caves, 
and  knows  neither  the  blowing  of  its  wind,  the  dash- 
ing of  its  waters,  the  shining  of  its  sun,  nor  the  glad 
laughter  of  its  inhabitants." 

They  wandered  along,  now  talking,  now  silent, 
their  two  hearts  lying  together  in  a  great  peace. 

The  moon  kept  rising  and  brightening,  slowly 
victorious  over  the  pallid  light  of  the  dead  sun  ;  till  at 
last  she  lifted  herself  out  of  the  vaporous  horizon-sea, 
ascended  over  the  tree-tops,  and  went  walking 
through  the  unobstructed  sky,  mistress  of  the  air, 
queen  of  the  heavens,  lady  of  the  eyes  of  men.  Yet 
was  she  lady  only  because  she  beheld  her  lord.  She 
saw  the  light  of  her  light,  and  told  what  she  saw 
of  him. 

♦'  When  the  soul  of  man  sees  God,  it  shines  !  "said 
Richard. 

They  reached  at  length  the  spot  where  first  they 
■met  in  the  moonlight.  With  one  heart  they  stopped 
and  turned,  and  looked  each  in  the  other's  moonlit 
eyes. 

Barbara  spoke  first. 

"Now,"  she  said,  "  tell  me  what  Baruch  says," 

"Ah,  yes,  Baruch  I  He  was  the  prophet  Jere- 
miah's friend  and  amanuensis.  It  was  the  moon 
made  me  think  of  him.  I  believe  I  can  give  you  the 
passage  word  for  word  as  it  stands  in  the  English 
Bible. 

"  '  But  he  that  knoweth  all  things  knoweth  her,' — 
that  is,  Wisdom—'  and  hath  found  her  out  with  his 
understanding  :  he  that  prepared  the  earth  forever- 


Barbara's  dream.  631 


more  hath  filled  it  with  four-footed  beasts  :  he  that 
sendeth  forth  light,  and  it  goeth,  calleth  it  again,  and 
it  obeyeth  him  with  fear.  The  stars  shined  in  their 
watches,  and  rejoiced:  when  he  calleth  them,  they 
say.  Here  we  be ;  and  so  with  cheerfulness  they 
showed  light  unto  him  that  made  them.  This  is  our 
God,  and  there  shall  none  other  be  accounted  of  in 
comparison  of  him.'" 

"That  is  beautiful!"  cried  Barbara.  "'They 
said.  Here  we  be  1     And  so — ' — What  is  it .?  " 

"  '  And  so  with  cheerfulness  they  showed  light 
unto  him  that  made  them.'  " 

"  I  will  read  every  word  of  Baruch  !  "  said  Barbara. 
"  Is  there  much  of  him  ?  " 

"No  ;  very  little." 

A  silence  followed.  Then  again  Barbara  spoke,  and 
she  clung  a  little  closer  to  her  husband. 

"  I  want  to  tell  you  something  that  came  to  me 
one  night  when  we  were  in  London,"  she  said. 
"It  was  a  miserable  time  that — before  I  found  you 
up  in  the  orchestra  there  !  and  then  hell  became  purga- 
tory, for  there  was  hope  in  it.  I  saw  so  many  mis- 
erable things  !  I  seemed  always  to  come  upon  the 
miserable  things.  It  was  as  if  my  eyes  were  made 
only  to  see  miserable  things — bad  things  and  suffer- 
ing everywhere.  The  terrible  city  was  full  of  them. 
I  longed  to  help,  but  had  to  wait  for  you  to  set  me 
free.  You  had  gone  from  my  knowledge,  and  I  was 
very  sad,  seeing  nothing  around  me  but  a  waste  of 
dreariness.  I  keep  asking  God  to  give  me  patience, 
and  not  let  me  fancy  myself  alone.  But  the  days  were 
dismal,  and  the  balls  and  dinners  frightful.  I  seemed 
in  a  world  without  air.  The  girls  were  so  silly,  the 
men  so  inane,  and  the  things  they  said  so  mawkish 


632  THERE    AND    BACK. 


and  colorless  !  Their  compliments  sickened  me  so, 
that  I  was  just  hungry  to  hide  myself.  But  at  last 
came  what  I  want  to  tell  you. 

"One  morning-,  after  what  seemed  a  long-  night's 
dreamless  sleep,  I  awoke  ;  but  it  was  much  too  early 
to  rise ;  so  I  lay  thinking — or  more  truly,  I  hope, 
being  thought  into,  as  Mr.  Wingfold  says.  INIany  of 
the  most  beautiful  things  I  had  read,  scenes  of  our 
Lord's  life  on  earth,  and  thoughts  of  the  Father,  came 
and  went.  I  had  no  desire  to  sleep  again,  or  any 
feeling  of  drowsiness  ;  but  in  the  midst  of  fully  con- 
scious thought,  found  myself  in  some  other  place,  of 
which  I  only  knew  that  there  was  firm  ground  under 
my  feet,  and  a  soft  white  radiance  of  light  about  me. 
The  remembrance  came  to  me  afterwards,  of  branches 
of  trees  spreading  high  overhead,  through  which  I 
saw  the  sky;  but  at  the  time  I  seemed  not  to  take 
notice  of  what  was  around  me.  I  was  leaning  against 
a  form  tall  and  grand,  clothed  from  the  shoulders  to 
the  ground  in  a  black  robe,  full,  and  soft  and  fine.  It 
lay  in  thickly  gathered  folds,  touched  to  whiteness  in 
the  radiant  fight,  all  along  the  arms  encircling,  with- 
out at  first  touching  me. 

"With  sweet  content  my  eyes  went  in  and  out  of 
those  manifold  radiant  lines,  feeling,  though  they 
were  but  parts  of  his  dress,  yet  they  were  of  himself; 
for  I  knew  the  form  to  be  that  of  the  heavenly  Father, 
but  felt  no  trembling  fear,  no  sense  of  painful  awe — 
only  a  deep,  deep  worshipping,  an  unutterable  love 
and  confidence.  '  Oh  Father  ! '  I  said,  not  aloud,  but 
low  into  the  folds  of  his  garment.  Scarcely  had  I 
breathed  the  words,  when  '  My  child  ! '  came  whis- 
pered, and  I  knew  his  head  was  bent  toward  me,  and 
I  felt  his  arms  close  round  my  shoulders,  and  the  folds 


Barbara's  dream.  633 

of  his  garment  enwrap  me,  and  with  a  soft  sweep,  fall 
behind  me  to  the  ground.  Delight  held  me  still  for 
a  while,  and  then  I  looked  up  to  seek  his  face  ;  but  I 
could  not  see  past  his  breast.  His  shoulders  rose  far 
above  my  upreaching  hands.  I  clasped  them  to- 
gether, and  face  and  hands  rested  near  his  heart,  for 
my  head  came  not  much  above  his  waist. 

"And  now  came  the  most  wonderful  part  of  my 
dream.  As  I  thus  rested  against  his  heart,  I  seemed 
to  see  into  it ;  and  mine  was  filled  with  loving  wonder, 
and  an  utterly  blessed  feeling  of  home,  to  the  very 
core.  I  vi'as  at  home — with  my  Father  !  I  looked, 
as  it  seemed,  into  a  space  illimitable  and  fathomless, 
and  yet  a  warm  light  as  from  a  hearth-fire  shone  and 
played  in  ruddy  glow,  as  upon  confining  walls.  And 
I  saw,  there  gathered,  all  human  hearts.  I  saw  them 
— yet  I  saw  no  forms  ;  they  were  there — and  yet  they 
zvould  be  there.  To  my  waking  reason,  the  words 
sound  like  nonsense,  and  perplex  me  ;  but  the  thing 
did  not  perplex  me  at  all.  With  light  beyond  that  of 
faith,  for  it  was  of  absolute  certainty,  clear  as  bodily 
vision,  but  of  a  different  nature,  I  saw  them.  But 
this  part  of  my  dream,  the  most  lovely  of  all,  I  can 
find  no  words  to  describe  ;  nor  can  I  even  recall  to 
my  own  mind  the  half  of  what  I  felt.  I  only  know 
that  something  was  given  me  then,  some  spiritual 
apprehension,  to  be  again  withdrawn,  but  to  be  given 
to  us  all,  I  believe,  some  day,  out  of  his  infinite  love, 
and  withdrawn  no  more.  Every  heart  that  had  ever 
ached,  or  longed,  or  wandered,  I  knew  Vas  there, 
folded  warm  and  soft,  safe  and  glad.  And  it  seemed 
in  my  dream  that  to  know  this  was  the  crown  of  all 
my  bliss — yes,  even  more  than  to  be  myself  in  my 
Father's  arms.     Awake,  the  thouijht  of  multitude  had 


634  THERE    AND    BACK. 

always  oppressed  my  mind  ;  it  did  not  then.  From 
the  comfort  and  joy  it  gave  me  to  see  them  there,  I 
seemed  then  first  to  know  how  my  own  heart  had 
ached  for  them. 

"Then  tears  began  to  run  from  my  eyes — but 
easily,  with  no  pain  of  the  world  in  them.  They 
flowed  like  a  gentle  stream — into  the  heart  0/  God, 
whose  depths  were  open  to  my  gaze.  The  blessed- 
ness of  those  tears  was  beyond  words.  It  was  all 
true  then  !     That  heart  was  our  home  ! 

"Then  I  felt  that  I  was  being  gently,  oh,  so  gently! 
put  away.  The  folds  of  his  robe  which  I  held  in  my 
hands  were  being  slowly  drawn  from  them  :  and  the 
gladness  of  my  weeping  changed  to  longing  entreaty. 
'  Oh,  Father  !  Father  !  '  I  cried  ;  but  I  saw  only  his 
grand  gracious  form,  all  blurred  and  indistinct  through 
the  veil  of  my  blinding  tears,  slowly  receding, 
slowly  fading — and  1  awoke. 

"  My  tears  were  flowing  now  with  the  old  earth- 
pain  in  them,  with  keenest  disappointment  and  long- 
ing. To  have  been  there  and  to  have  come  hack,  was 
the  misery.  But  it  did  not  last  long.  The  glad  thought 
awoke  that  I  had  the  dream — a  precious  thing  never 
to  be  lost  while  memory  lasted  ;  a  thing  which  noth- 
ing but  its  realization  could  ever  equal  in  precious- 
ness.  I  rose  glad  and  strong,  to  serve  with  newer 
love,  with  quicker  hand  and  readier  foot,  the  hearts 
around  me." 


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